


Wolf + Snow

by gaelicspirit



Series: The Ambassador Series [2]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bombs, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missions Gone Wrong, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 13:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/pseuds/gaelicspirit
Summary: Set in S2. When a simple search and retrieval of a rogue CIA Agent turns sideways, Jack and MacGyver are left wounded in the Canadian wilderness, their only hope of survival the very man they were sent to bring reluctantly home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. And…the characters swear a bit more in my hands than they do on the show. But being that they’re both ex-military, I figure some creative license is permissible. Also, I’ve never been to the Northwest Territory in Canada—if Canada is your stomping grounds, I apologize now for any misrepresentation in this work of fiction. Lastly, medical inaccuracies abound. I did research, but…then I fictioned. So, don’t try any of the medical procedures in this story at home, kids.
> 
>  **Author’s Note:** This story is set in the same ‘verse as my first MacGyver story, Anvil + Duct Tape. You don’t have to read that one to enjoy this one, but there are a couple references made that harken back to that story rather than to cannon. I found that I enjoyed playing in this sandbox so decided to hang out here a little bit longer. I hope you don’t mind…and that you’re entertained.
> 
> Big thanks to my friend and confidant, **ThruTerrysEyes**. Thanks for your help, as always.

 

“Survival can be summed up in three words: never give up. That’s the heart of it, really. Just keep trying.”

\- Bear Grylls

**

**100 Miles North of Alberta, Canada**

_-Jack-_

There was a sensation of weightlessness he associated with freedom when in a helicopter.

It was truly his favorite way to travel—though he’d go to his grave denying he preferred a chopper over his precious GTO.  All too often, the _whomp-whomp_ of the rotor blades was synonymous with safety or rescue. Either offering it or receiving it.

Both set things right in Jack Dalton’s world.

Looking across the fuselage, Jack saw that his partner clearly did not share his relative comfort with their current mode of transportation. Mac had never really been a fan of flying, but he managed to mask it effectively when traveling via the Phoenix Foundation jet. It was a bit harder to do in an AH-64 Apache, stripped down to the skids for their arctic drop.

“So…Denendeh,” Jack shouted over the rattle and hum of the chopper blades beating against the frigid sky. He tilted his head as he studied the map in his hands. “Sounds like something out of _Lord of the Rings_.”

Glancing up, he watched as Mac pulled his eyes from the anemic sky and settled his gaze on Jack.

“Book or movie?” Mac’s smile was tolerant.

Jack’s answering grin, however, was purposefully wide; he felt his eyes crinkle up at the corners, drawing Mac in. “Eh, I could never get through all those made-up words in the book, kid, you know that.”

Mac shook his head once. “Denendeh is Athabaskan.”

“If you say so.” Jack lifted a shoulder, just glad Mac was engaging and not losing himself inside his own head. “Still sounds like something that George Martin dude made up.”

Mac huffed a laugh. “That’s _Game of Thrones_. Tolkien wrote _Lord of the Rings_.”

Jack folded the map they’d been given and tucked it into the front pocket of his white camo TAC gear.

“And it’s officially the Northwest Territory,” Mac informed him. “The Dene are the native people of the region, and the Denendeh covers something like 30,000 miles—but our guy is in the Northwest Territory.” He frowned, looking down at his glove-covered hands. “Or so Matty thinks.”

Jack shifted in his heavy coat so that it settled easier across his shoulders. “Should just call it friggin’ cold.”

Mac nodded. “Not going to argue with you there.” He sighed, “We gotta be careful—it’s probably only going to get up to negative ten during the day.”

“Gear up, Gentlemen,” called the pilot. “We’re five miles out.”

“Roger that,” Jack shouted back, then met Mac’s eyes once more, nodding.

They were already wearing winter camouflage and TAC gear, but had held off on the head gear until they were closer to the drop zone so that they could keep communications with the pilot. Jack removed his headset and watched as Mac mirrored his actions, pulling their white ski masks on, their snow goggles in place, and their fur-lined hoods up.

“Comms check,” Jack tapped his earpiece.

“I read you,” Mac replied, his voice as clear in Jack’s ears as though the kid were sitting next to him.

Jack watched as Mac turned his attention back to the window, tension in every line of his body. Two months ago, they’d been in Kosovo and Jack had come the closest he ever wanted to get to losing his young partner. Since that time, the team Director, Matty Webber, had kept Mac State-side, assigning him to local issues or problems he could solve in a virtual environment. Jack knew that her thinking had been to give the kid time to heal both physically and mentally.

Unfortunately, during that time, MacGyver had been forced to witness the death of a young scientist he had been trying to save—along with her thirty-one students—in a stranded freighter. He’d managed to keep the students alive until the Coast Guard arrived, but watching the young scientist drown and being unable to do anything to help her had unraveled something in Mac. Something beyond the impact of losing the Ambassador and his family in Argentina. Something that shadowed the light Jack had always seen in the genius’ eyes.

It was like watching an internal eclipse.

Since the freighter, Matty had shifted her tactics, moving Jack and MacGyver back into regular rotation, assigning them to whatever missions came their way that fit their particular skill sets. So far, their success rate had been solid—and they’d returned to Los Angeles without so much as a paper cut.

But Mac had carried his tension like a shield, never truly at peace.

As Jack watched, Mac’s eyes roamed the white expanse of their drop point, his naturally deep voice, when he reported his observations to Jack, losing its softness and turning into a thing with edges that could slice just from the pain of existing.

“We’ll have a good fifty feet from the drop point to the tree line,” Mac informed him. “If this Gray guy knows we’re coming, we’ll have to be alert.”

“Brother, I was _born_ alert,” Jack grinned as he checked the clip on his Glock before sliding it safely into its holster.

Mac’s smile was genuine. “I believe you.”

A hand tapped twice on Jack’s shoulder.

“Two minutes,” Jack reported to Mac via comms.

Mac nodded, standing and shouldering his pack, stepping through the leg holsters before clipping the strap closed across his chest. Grabbing the thick drop ropes, he nodded at Jack, indicating he was ready for the other man to open the side door. The bitter wind reached in and grabbed for any bit of exposed flesh, turning the fuselage icy.

Getting the nod from the copilot, who stood ready to disengage the drop ropes, MacGyver and Jack shoved the ropes through the open door, waited for the helicopter to hover, and then descended one after the other at a rapid pace. Mac hit the snow first, curling forward. Jack dropped next to him, bending so that their backs were the only things exposed to the crazily whipping snow stirred up by the rotor blades.

The ropes dropped with a heavy _vomph_ into the snow next to the two men and inside another minute the helicopter had pulled away, leaving them knee-deep in the wet, heavy snow of the Canadian wilderness. The minute the snow wasn’t being flung around in a man-made blizzard, Jack tapped his partner on the back and they turned as one to head for the protection of the trees.

Jack pulled his rifle from where the strap secured it across his shoulders and checked the wrapped barrel, both for camouflage and protection. Last thing he needed was to have his gun freeze up if Isaac Gray decided to put up a fight. He crouched next to the trunk of a thick spruce and shifted his goggles to his forehead, narrowing his eyes at Mac’s kneeling form.

“Talk me through it,” he ordered.

He knew the mission by rote, but there was something about the way Mac held himself, the way the kid was scanning the empty expanse of their drop zone, that compelled Jack to make sure he was engaged. Jack needed his partner _here_ …not trapped in the vast expanse of his own mind.

“Last intel on Isaac Gray puts him inside a fifteen mile perimeter of our location,” Mac replied, not looking toward Jack as he spoke. “And he agreed to meet us as soon as he was sure there weren’t any…governmental entanglements.”

Jack nodded, eyes on Mac as his partner scanned the horizon as though mentally mapping the endless stretch of snow.

“Right,” he said, chambering a round in his rifle. “CIA wants their boy back because he has some super-special info on some KGB dudes.”

At that Mac finally did shift to glance his way. “ _FSB_ , Jack. KGB ended before I was born.”

“Right, right,” Jack lifted his chin. “Knew it was some kind of alphabet soup.”

Mac shook his head, but his shoulders relaxed slightly. “We bring him back— _alive_ —and Matty’s square with the CIA for that favor she called in when we were in Argentina.”

Jack grimaced slightly at the bitter edge in Mac’s voice. He didn’t blame the kid. They’d only recently found out that Matty had to call in a favor to help handle cleanup for the failed mission in Argentina; it had taken Mac almost three months to put that behind him and the reminder was like opening a wound.

Jack had been tempted to take Matty aside and call her out on bringing that job up again—but before he could act on his instinct, she’d turned the tables on him, informing him that she’d considered sending him in alone. After all, he was the one with the CIA background and training; this was right up his alley and had nothing to do with Mac’s particular skill set. But they’d both known that sending Jack on a mission without MacGyver would be more detrimental to the young agent’s mental state than any reminder would have been.

“So, we track this guy down, talk him into coming home with us—which will be _super_ easy since his own agency hasn’t been able to,” Jack grumbled, “and we’re all drinking beers on your back deck by tomorrow.”

Mac shifted his goggles to his forehead, pulling a laminated map from his breast pocket. “That’s the idea.”

Jack waited, thankful for the protection of the insulated cold-weather gear. For a guy from Texas, currently living in California, missions this far north weren’t exactly on his bucket list. He sniffed, the cold air attacking his sinuses.

“Since no one apparently trusts this guy to keep up his side of the bargain, the plan from the Phoenix calls for us to split up and circle around here,” Mac pointed to a section of the map.

“Sounds like you disagree,” Jack replied, wondering why his partner was only now bringing up his feelings about the mission parameters. Jack had been fairly vocal with his objections to only periodic communications and a radio evac rather than constant monitoring, calling a respectful bullshit to Matty’s CIA-related reasoning. Mac had simply sat still and quiet, absorbing the information provided, before heading out to gear up. “You got a better idea?”

Mac sighed looking around. “We’re eighty miles from any sort of civilization, in the middle of wolf country. I think splitting up is a very, very bad idea.”

“Never really worked out well for the Scooby gang, either,” Jack agreed, earning a smirk from his partner. “And, I’m guessing that just chillin’ here and waiting for the dude to find us is out of the question.”

“It’s barely above zero with the sun shining,” Mac pointed out, tipping his hand up in a question. “Pretty sure staying here and waiting for him will redefine ‘chilling’ for you.”

“Valid point.” Jack tipped his head back in agreement. “So, we pick a direction?”

Mac nodded. “There are natural caves about two miles that way,” he nodded to the west, “according to the map. It’s as good a place as any to start tracking this guy down.”

“You’re forgetting that he _did_ radio in—which is why we know to be here at all,” Jack stated.

“I’m not forgetting,” Mac shifted from his knees to balance on the balls of his feet. “I’m counting on his attempt to reach us being our way to reach him.”

“Well, all right then,” Jack pushed to his feet, still sheltered by the cover of trees. “Lead on MacDuff.”

“Shakespeare _and_ Tolkien? You’re just full of surprises,” Mac grinned, pulling his goggles back in place and heading west along the tree line.

“Eh, don’t get too excited,” Jack shrugged, following his partner, his head on a swivel. Gray might have wanted to make contact at one time, but there was a reason the man was hiding from his own government, and Jack wasn’t about to let that reason take their heads off. “I can never remember which one ends with everyone dying.”

Mac chuffed. “That’s…well, _all_ of them.”

They carried forward, their voices low, muffled by their cold weather gear, but clear enough in their comms. Jack kept close to his unarmed partner, his rifle in ready position in case Gray decided to take a pot shot. Or a wolf showed up.

“So what is it you think this guys has that’s so important to the CIA?” Jack mused.

Mac made a humming noise in the comm, one Jack had come to associate with the younger man’s internal gears at work.

“Well, if you think about the fact that they could have sent a strike team in to take him out,” Mac mused, wading hip-deep through some snow before climbing to a more-level area of land, “it’s not something they want to keep him from selling to _another_ government.”

“True.”

“And if they’re sending _us_ in, counting on your CIA background to help us think like this spy— “

“Hey,” Jack broke in, “don’t forget about your wicked-smart improv.”

“Please,” Mac scoffed, pausing next to a rather broad tree to consult the map once more. “The only reason I’m here is that Matty doesn’t know what else to do with me right now.”

“Mac— “

“ _And_ she figured if she sent you in alone, I’d go _more_ crazy worrying about you.”

Jack frowned, reaching out to grab Mac’s shoulder and turn the younger man around. “You’re not crazy, Mac.”

Mac held still; Jack hated that he couldn’t see the kid’s expression through the cold weather protective gear.

“You got some things going on with you right now, sure, but,” Jack shrugged, keeping his hand steady on his partner’s shoulder, “that happens to all of us, man.”

“Yeah, that’s what Freddie said,” Mac replied quietly, rotating his head away from Jack.

“Freddie?” Jack dropped his hand from Mac’s shoulder in surprise. “You mean my sniper friend, Freddie? You went to his group?”

Mac nodded, still looking out across the landscape of snow. Jack remembered telling Mac about the former sniper and the veterans support group he’d founded a couple months back when the younger man had been struggling to put the loss in Argentina behind him.

“When?”

“After Zoe—“ Mac’s voice cracked with emotion and he paused, clearing his throat. “After the research team was rescued from that ship.”

Jack took that in for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You had enough going on with Riley and Elwood…I just….”

Jack shuffled forward, creating twin furrows in the snow, until he was close enough to clink goggles with his partner. “You listen here, bud. You listening to me?”

Mac nodded, silently.

“There is nothing I wouldn’t put aside for you. Nothing. You got that?”

“Yeah, Jack,” Mac replied, but it was rote, pacifying the older man so that he backed up and put his hackles down.

Jack took a breath, trying to balance his instinct to protect with the knowledge that MacGyver was a grown man who didn’t need his partner trying to solve his problems for him.

“Did it help? Freddie’s group?”

“I only went the one time,” Mac confessed. “He…, uh.” Mac cleared his throat. “Freddie is a nice guy. Good listener.”

Jack nodded, tamping down on the sensation that his heart was loose inside his chest, getting caught on his rib cage and tearing. “Good,” he said, patting Mac on the shoulder. “That’s…uh, that’s real good, bud.”

Mac indicated with the map. “The caves are a bit further.”

They continued to move west, comms silent, minds busy with possibilities and obstacles. As they broke the tree line, Mac held up a hand, looking above them at the tree tops for any indication of a hunting blind or the gleam of a barrel. Jack did the same, scanning the snow between them and the opening to the cave.

“No footprints,” he reported quietly.

“Yeah, I got nothing in the trees, either,” Mac replied.

As they made their way to the cave entrance, Jack picked up on a scent even through his ski mask; it was musky, wild. The hairs on his neck stood on end.

“Watch out for wolves, bud,” Jack warned.

Still several feet from the entrance to the cave, Mac pulled a small Maglite from his vest, shining it in the interior. Jack wasn’t able to see what the light hit, but there was no mistaking the instant tension in his partners frame when Mac stopped moving.

“Jack, back up real slow,” Mac ordered, his voice low and careful.

Without question, Jack did as requested, one hand on Mac’s shoulder to help guide the other man away from the cave entrance. When the opening was no longer visible, Jack stopped and felt Mac’s shoulder relax.

“Bear,” Mac reported before Jack had to ask. “Pretty sure our guy didn’t use that cave.”

“Or, the dude was a snack and we came all this way for nothing,” Jack huffed, pulling his ski mask away from his mouth and wiping the moisture from his upper lip before it turned into mini icicles.

“Okay, you were a spy,” Mac said, putting his back against Jack’s so that they kept a look out on both sides. “What would you do if you were 80 miles from civilization and trying to hide from your own government?”

“Find shelter?” Jack tried very hard to not make it sound like a question.

He heard the rustle of the map as Mac consulted it once more. “There’s not much out here…and it’s going to be dark soon. I agree, he didn’t made it this long without some kind of shelter.”

“Maybe there’s a ranger station or a wildlife watch tower close by,” Jack offered, keeping one eye on the direction of the cave.

“Jack, you’re a genius!” Mac replied, the grin plain his voice. “There’s a fire jumper tower about three miles east.”

“Let’s do it,” Jack nodded, wrapping the shoulder strap of the rifle around his forearm.

Three miles wasn’t much for two men who spent the Phoenix Foundation’s required time at the gym each week. Three miles in knee-deep snow, though, was a different story entirely. By the time they reached the base of the fire jumper tower, they were both sucking desperately for air and Jack’s lungs ached.

Night had found a toe-hold and was climbing the sky, pushing the sunlight lower in its quest for dominance. Jack did a quick sweep of the tower’s base and saw no human footprints in the snow—but enough animal tracks to make him worry.

If Gray was up in the tower, he was going to have to shove over and make room; they weren’t staying out in the open tonight.

“He’s not up there,” Mac said quietly.

Jack looked over, surprised by the certainty in his partner’s voice. “How do you figure?”

Mac pulled his goggles off, letting them hang around his neck as he looked up the ladder to the darkened door at the underside of the shelter. “See that orange tag?”

Jack pulled down his own goggles. “Yeah, so?”

“It’s like a seal—applied by the last jumper to leave, broken by the next team to report to the shelter.”

A howl tickled the corners of the darkness, causing both men to jump.

“Pretty sure we’re that next team, bud.” Jack gave Mac a little shove and the younger man began to climb the ladder, Jack close on his heels.

They paused at the top of the ladder as Mac pulled out his Swiss Army knife and cut the seal. He had to hold the mini Maglite in his teeth while he picked the padlock, but then they were climbing up into the cold stillness of the fire jumper tower. Once the trap door was closed, there was roughly enough room inside for them to stretch their arms in each direction, but that was it.

“Cozy,” Jack remarked, looking around at the sparse equipment within.

“There’s not going to be much here in the way of supplies,” Mac predicted. “It’s mainly a look-out and protection for the smoke jumpers.”

“If it keeps us from getting eaten by wolves, I’m good with it,” Jack said, pulling his hood down and shrugging out of his pack. He set the rifle in one corner and removed his ski mask and goggles, rubbing a hand over his sweaty head. “You hungry?”

Mac nodded, following Jack’s lead. They dug into their packs and pulled out an MRE each. Jack tugged his gloves off with his teeth, breathing into his curled fists before opening his food packet.

“You up for the irony of building a fire in a fire jumper tower?” Jack asked, nudging the small, portable cook stove in his pack.

Mac shook his head. “The light would put us at a disadvantage…plus we’ve got nothing to contain it.”

Jack put his pack between his back and the cold wall. “Too smart for your own good.”

“At least this way we can both get some sleep instead of one of us having to keep watch,” Mac offered, eyebrows up.

“Keep seeking that silver lining, bud,” Jack groused, sucking out more protein from the pouch.

Mac leaned closer to him, peering up through the window. “Speaking of….”

Jack looked over his shoulder, eyes catching on the green and blue dancing lights of the Aurora Borealis that had caught Mac’s interest.

“Well, isn’t that something,” he said with reverence. “It’s like…nature’s magic.”

“Actually, it’s caused when electrically charged particles from the sun collide with oxygen and nitrogen from the earth’s atmos— “

Jack reached out and clapped a hand over Mac’s mouth. “It’s. Nature’s. Magic. Jesus, weren’t you _ever_ just a kid?” He dropped his hand when he felt Mac’s half-grin.

“This _was_ me as a kid.”

“Someone should have read you a bedtime story once in a while.”

Mac looked back up at the dancing lights, the tautness in his face softening. For a moment, he almost looked his age.

“My mom did,” he recalled. “Before she got sick, I mean. I don’t remember much except…sitting next to her. How her arm felt around me. The sound of her voice—the way it undulated, you know? Not the actual words.”

“You lost magic at five years old,” Jack said quietly when Mac’s voice tapered off. “That explains a lot about you, bud.”

“What about you?” Mac shifted so that his back was against his pack, propped up in the corner of the small shelter.

“I _still_ believe in magic,” Jack grinned, gathering their empty MRE pouches and stuffing them away in his pack.

Mac chuckled. “Of course, you do.”

“Dude, how else do you explain me making it out of as many scrapes as I did before I had you to invent random ways to save my life?”

“Skill? Luck? General bad-assery?”

“Bad-assery,” Jack chuckled, tipping his head toward his partner in a salute. “I like that one.”

They settled in for the night, lying with their backs to each other for warmth, boots pressed against the opposite wall of the shelter. Jack watched the dance of the lights, feeling Mac relax against him, hearing the younger man’s breathing even out in sleep. The shelter rocked slightly as the wind picked up, sending an almost mournful cry through the tops of the trees, whistling around the edges of the building, and drawing up the echoing howl of wolves as they roamed the darkness beneath them.

Jack didn’t recall the moment he dipped from awareness to sleep, but he immediately registered the moment his partner’s demons came knocking. Mac jerked against his back, jolting Jack into wakefulness. At first, he was confused; he looked around the gloom of the small shelter, getting his bearings.

They were lying on top of the trap door, so no one had gotten in. The wolves weren’t howling. The Northern Lights had even given way to the demands of the night. The darkness in the shelter was nearly complete—only ambient starlight filtered in through the viewpoint windows from the moonless night sky.

Jack felt his partner flinch once more. They’d spent enough nights sleeping in strange locations for Jack to know that his partner slept tense—as though he was waiting for the bottom to drop out of the world.

He turned over carefully so that he was facing MacGyver’s back. The younger man had his arms wrapped around himself, almost as if he were trying to catch bits of himself before they tumbled free and shattered completely.

Jack watched, not wanting to wake the young agent unnecessarily, and saw Mac jerk once more, this time with a low mutter as though he were angry. Jack couldn’t see his partner’s expression, but he knew that tone. He rested a hand on Mac’s arm, intending to shake the younger man awake.

He should have known better.

One minute he was leaning sleepily over his partner, the next he was flat on his back with Mac’s hands gripping the opened edges of his camo jacket at the base of his throat, knuckles digging into Jack’s throat. Mac’s eyes were wide, the starlight reflecting in the bright blue. Jack coughed out a surprised breath, thankful that the kid wasn’t aware enough to exert full pressure.

“Hey,” he wheezed, resting his hands on Mac’s wrists. “Hey, there, bud…it’s okay. It’s me. It’s Jack.”

Mac slowly loosened his grip, resting his hands on Jack’s chest. Jack kept his hand on Mac’s wrists.

“You with me, Mac?”

“Jack?” Mac asked in a voice so raw it didn’t hold weight.

Jack patted Mac’s hands, slowly shifting until he was propped up on his elbows. “I’m right here.”

Mac exhaled slowly, sitting back on his heels, and covering his face with his hands. “Son of a bitch.”

Jack sat all the way up, drawing his knees forward until they paralleled Mac’s, and peered through the darkness at his partner. “Want to talk about it?”

Mac curled his gloved hands into fists. Jack could feel the kid trembling through the contact of their legs, his silence taut, like he was trying to prove something to himself. He felt Mac shake his head, heard him exhale. Jack had lived long enough to know that the stakes are never higher than when the opposition is a mirror.

“Mac?”

“Just need a second,” Mac replied, his voice breaking on the last word. He took a breath, then dragged his fingers down his cheeks.

Jack knew the need for that beat, that breath, the moment of a reminder of what was now—not _then_ , but _now_ —all too well. He’d heard the break in Mac’s voice before. He’d felt his own shatter, felt the impact of reality rain down around him.

“You okay?” Mac asked in a small voice.

“I think that’s supposed to be my line.”

“I wasn’t the one who just about got strangled,” Mac pointed out.

Jack dropped a heavy hand on Mac’s arm. Mac almost flinched away, but Jack felt him fight to hold still. He wanted to tell him he wouldn’t look at him if he didn’t want him to. He wasn’t trying to catch him out. But, he didn’t.

Instead, he attempted to reassure the younger man. “I’m good, Mac. Don’t beat yourself up about that. Got it?”

After a heartbeat or two, Mac replied softly, “Got it.”

“Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Mac shook his head—a motion Jack only registered because he felt it through his grip on Mac’s arm. There had been something going on with his partner for months—since Argentina, since the research ship. Enough to send Mac to find Freddie. Enough that he pulled it all inside, keeping it from Jack, sparing them both the inevitable fallout.

Jack just wasn’t sure anymore how to get behind the kid’s walls.

“Think you could get back to sleep?”

“I can try,” Mac sighed, then lay down face-up rather than on his side.

Jack mirrored him, crossing his arms over his chest, his right side flush against Mac’s left. They lay still and quiet for several minutes, then Jack spoke up.

“What kind of bedtime stories?”

It only took Mac a beat to connect the question with their earlier conversation. “Well, I was four, so…Dr. Seuss, mostly.” He waited a moment. “What did your parents read to you?”

“My dad read me Zane Gray westerns,” Jack recalled, feeling his cold skin of his face crinkle slightly at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “ _Riders of the Purple Sage_ , _The Last Trail_ , _Spirit of the Border_.”

“Cowboy stories,” Mac asked, his voice drowsy with sleep.

“Adventurers, heroes, everything he admired,” Jack said. “Everything he wanted me to be, I guess.”

The quiet of the night filled the small shelter and Jack listened to his partner’s breathing once more. It didn’t taper and ease quite as quickly as it had earlier in the night.

“I can still remember some,” Jack offered.

“The stories?”

“Mmmhmm,” Jack confirmed. “Want to hear?”

“Sure,” Mac shifted, tucking his gloved hands flat beneath his folded arms, pressing close to Jack for warmth.

Jack began talking, low and slow, recalling the rhythm and cadence of his father’s baritone, thinking about the way his dad’s hands had looked holding the narrow books, their weathered pages bent and crackling with age. His recall was so vivid, he almost didn’t register when Mac had once more relaxed against him, his face turned toward Jack’s shoulder.

Quieting, Jack held on to the memory of his father sitting at his bedside, glasses low on his nose with the book tilted toward Jack’s desk lamp, and let that soothe him into a—thankfully uninterrupted—slumber. When the first rays of morning sun danced orange and red across his closed lids, Jack realized he hadn’t fully appreciated the shelter’s windows the night before.

He opened his eyes, then clamped them shut once more, immediately regretting that decision. Dragging a hand down his face, the cold stiffness of his gloves scratching against the scruff of beard on his chin, he turned his head to the side to blink awake.

Not one to enjoy the process of waking up—especially after such a restless night—Mac was staring at him sullenly as though Jack was personally responsible for the sunrise.

“Morning,” Jack rasped, clearing his throat, and pushing up to his elbows. “We got any coffee beans I can chew on or something?”

Mac groaned slightly as he sat up, shifting away from Jack, and reaching for his pack, coughing a bit into the crook of his arm as he cleared away the morning cobwebs. “I was dreaming about cowboys,” he said softly. “Does that make sense?”

“You remember what else you were dreaming about?” Jack asked, pushing to his feet, and stretching his arms over his head. He heard rather than saw Mac freeze in memory.

“Shit.”

Jack glanced down and saw Mac reach for his throat then look up at Jack with an expression of horror on his face.

“I’m good, bud. We covered that.”

“Oh, man, Jack, I’m so— “

“Do _not_ say you’re sorry,” Jack ordered, turning to face his partner. “You’ve helped me through some shit I don’t think either one of us wants to remember, so let’s just chalk last night up to…to the effects of the Northern Lights and leave it at that.” Mac opened his mouth and Jack held up a hand, stilling his partner’s protest. “Eh! Before you tell me it doesn’t work like that, I’m just going to tell you to shut it. As far as I’m concerned, it works _exactly_ like that.”

Mac drew out a silver canister from his pack. “I was _going_ to say, I have coffee.”

Jack frowned. “Not… _actual_ coffee.”

“Actual coffee.”

Mac unscrewed the top and the scent of coffee wafted around the small shelter.

“Oh…my…God…,” Jack groaned, closing his eyes in delight. “I could kiss you right now.”

“Please don’t,” Mac chuckled. “Your morning breath is terrible.”

“Wait until I marinate it in caffeinated bliss,” Jack held out his hand and took the proffered canister from Mac. “It’s even hot!”

Mac nodded. “I reverse engineered the containers we use to keep the bioweapons inert and used the same process for coolants to generate a continuous heating conductor— “

“Blah blah blah _magic_ ,” Jack grinned after downing a mouthful of hot coffee.

“Science,” Mac corrected, standing, and pulling out a protein bar before shouldering his pack.

“With a _little_ bit of magic,” Jack pressed, handing Mac the canister and grinning as the younger man took a drink and sighed as though he could feel the caffeine hit his toes. “Eh? Eh? See?”

“You win, Jack,” Mac grinned, taking another drink before handing it back. “Coffee is magic.”

“Okay, so…since we aren’t going to find this dude hanging out in this treehouse, what’s the plan?”

Mac spread the map out on the window. “I’ve been thinking…maybe we’re going about this wrong.”

“Oh, so _now_ you think the whole splitting up idea is a good one?”

“Not splitting up _completely_ ,” Mac folded his face into the _someone else might be right and I’m not sure what to do about it_ expression that Jack always found endearing. It made the guy seem human once in a while. “Just adjust our approach so that we cover grids. Um…separately.”

Jack chuckled, shoving half a protein bar into his mouth and watched as Mac showed him first on the map and then out in the blinding white of the snow-covered wilderness which way each of them would go. They finished their breakfast, checked their gear, and climbed out of the tower—Mac making sure to relock the trap door, even though he couldn’t re-affix the orange tag.

At the base of the tower, they pulled on their ski masks and goggles, checked their comms, and parted ways. For all his complaining, Jack was skilled at tracking by landmarks and trajectories without needing repeated viewings of a map. The biggest challenge he faced now was that the snow leveled the playing field. The sun’s rays hit the landscape, reflecting off of the icy crystals and against his goggles, and he had to stop more than once to orient to his grid.

Mac’s voice in his ear at regular intervals helped keep him grounded and before he knew it mid-day had overtaken them and he was no closer to finding evidence of this rogue CIA agent they were after than he had been that morning. Mac’s frustrated voice in his ear echoed the same sentiment.

“I’m breaking for chow,” Jack announced. “Even former spies gotta eat.”

“ _Roger that_ ,” Mac replied.

Jack hunkered down against a tree, his rifle across his lap, and peeled off the wrapper to another protein bar. As he scanned the quiet wilderness around him, he registered that something felt off. It took him a full minute to realize that he was being watched.

He wadded up the wrapper and slowly stuffed it into a vest pocket, shifting his hands to his rifle and scanning the visible perimeter without moving his body.

“Mac,” he whispered.

“ _I’m here_ ,” Mac replied.

“I’ve got eyes on me.”

“ _Human?_ ”

“Unclear.”

Mac was quiet a moment. “ _Can you get to cover?_ ”

“Not without drawing focus.”

“ _On my way._ ”

It was a glint—nothing more than a quick flash of reflection—that gave away the barrel. The man was in a hunting blind fifty yards from Jack and had essentially taken a breath, shifting the barrel of his rifle enough the sun caught it. Jack rolled to his right toward a thick cluster of trees, tensing for a shot that never came. Pressing his back against a tree, now in shadow from the sight line of the gun barrel, Jack commed Mac once more.

“Gotta be our boy,” he said, breathless from the adrenalin.

The fact that Gray had him sighted down a rifle barrel was unsettling, to say the least. Especially since the CIA Agent was the one to set up this whole winter trek.

“ _He take a shot?_ ”

“Negative.” Jack angled a glance around the tree. “He’s about 100 yards out from our meeting point, if you come up that way.”

“ _Work around to the west. Box him in?_ ”

“Roger that,” Jack breathed, pushing away from the tree, and making his way along the tree line toward the hunting blind.

As he rounded a cluster of trees, his eyes caught on a stretch of snow churned up by multiple tracks. Wolves—or possibly mountain lion. Whatever they were, there were several of them, and they were as big as his hand.

Gripping the barrel of his rifle tighter, Jack moved forward down the path. He didn’t register the pressure of the trip wire against his leg until he heard the pin pop. For a split second, Jack felt completely certain he was about to be shattered by the destructive impact of an exploding grenade.

Therefore, when the jolt of a stabbing pain hit him in the thigh, he jerked from surprise. Staggering to the side, he sank into the snow without even a whimper. Blinking, Jack looked down at his leg and saw the small silver canister and green tassel of a tranquilizer dart sticking out from his camo.

“M-Mac…,” he tried, his tongue feeling heavy, numb. He had to tell him. Had to warn him. “Tr-trip wire.”

“ _Jack? Jack, talk to me!_ ”

He was trying, honest.

It was just that the world had started spinning—a kaleidoscope of greens and browns smearing against white…so much white. And then the spinning stopped, replaced by a thin darkness, which would have made him panic except that he’d slipped behind cotton, wrapping around him and muting the world until Jack wasn’t really even part of it anymore.

He floated, suspended and weightless, and not even the panicked cries of his partner turning tinny in his ear was enough to shake the cobwebs loose. Vision slipping out of focus, the last thing Jack saw as he sank deeper into the snowbank was the glint off of the barrel of a rifle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  **a/n:** The Ambassador in the Argentina mission that haunts Mac is from my story _Anvil + Duct Tape_.


	2. Chapter 2

_-Mac-_

For many years, it had surprised Mac to learn that there were some people who lived their lives without any major, life-changing surprises. People who moved through each day expecting things to go a certain way and whose life more or less corresponded to that expectation.

Life had not treated Angus MacGyver with quite the same deference.

Along the way, he’d started to expect life to disappoint, to destroy, to turn sideways and to pull the metaphorical rug out from under him. Until he met Jack Dalton and realized that sometimes when someone says _I’ve got your back_ , they meant it.

Jack became Mac’s exception—his litmus test that all other people were measured against.

The idea that their target had Jack in his sights coiled a snake of rage in Mac’s gut. He _knew_ they shouldn’t have split up. Nothing ever worked well for them when they separated.

Moving toward to their meeting point through the knee-deep snow was exhausting. The snow was wet and heavy, chilling him even through his insulated TAC gear. The icy crystals reflected the brilliant sunlight, teasing his vision even through the protective goggles; he had to force himself not to growl in frustration. He struggled to find solid ground as the frozen land slipped beneath his boots, catching himself against protruding rocks and branch-bare trees.

And then Jack’s voice slurred through the comm in his ear, breathy with surprise and tinged with pain.

_“M-Mac…tr-trip wire….”_

Panic ripped through MacGyver like a living thing.

“Jack? Jack, talk to me!”

There was no universe where Jack being hurt was going to be something MacGyver would handle well. It had happened before—too many times in Mac’s recollection. And every time it had felt like his world was ending.

Because the world simply _did not work_ without Jack.

“Jack. Report.” The hiss of silence in his comm was his only reply.

Finding another gear, he covered the area in half the time he’d calculated.

“Jack? You there? C’mon, man…answer me.” He swallowed, pulling himself through a deeper snowbank. “Please?”

In less than ten minutes from Jack’s last transmission, Mac was coming up on the area where they’d originally agreed to meet. Leaning against a tree, he pulled his goggles down around his neck, grabbed binoculars from his pack and fought to slow down his breath.

Jack hadn’t responded to his calls; no matter how desperate he was to find him, Mac didn’t want to alert anyone else in the area by shouting Jack’s name until he could find out what condition his partner was in. Trailing the binoculars along the edge of the tree line, he saw a section of disrupted snow and what could only be the top of his partner’s pack. Back tracking with the binoculars, Mac looked for footprints in the snow, blood, something to indicate why Jack wasn’t moving.

Shifting his view to the tops of the trees, he spotted an empty hunter’s blind. It looked like the snow along the trunk of the tree had been recently disrupted and Mac could see a rope with several heavy knots still swinging from recent use.

Tucking his binoculars away, he grabbed a breath, then started toward where he’d seen Jack. Just as he edged away from the safety of the tree, a flurry of movement to his left startled him. Spooked from their nesting place, a flock of pheasants shot to the sky with a warbled cry of irritation. Mac dropped to a crouch, making himself as small a target as possible, and saw in the distance a _floom_ of snow kicked up from the heels of someone running full-out in the opposite direction.

Isaac Gray. Had to be. But why was he running _away_ from them?

“Dammit,” Mac muttered, then pushed forward in the snow until he reached Jack.

His partner was eerily still, slumped sideways in the snow. Mac checked his pulse—it was strong and steady. He carefully turned the other man to his back, eyes scanning his camo and the surrounding snow for signs of what had happened.

Plenty of animal tracks, no blood.

Removing Jack’s goggles and pulling his ski mask down to expose his face he saw that the man was unnaturally pale, but not yet hypothermic, and was breathing evenly.

“Jack,” Mac said, tapping his partner’s face. “Hey, man, c’mon. I need you to wake up for me. Jack!”

Nothing.

Swallowing, Mac began to run his hands over Jack’s torso and arms, then down his hips to his legs, one hand catching on a piece of metal protruding from Jack’s thigh. Leaning over he realized it was a small, metal dart. He pulled his glove off with is teeth, then grabbed the dart, pulling it straight out of Jack’s leg. He wasn’t nearly as worried about the small amount of blood that would result from the removal of the dart as he was about what kind of substance had been injected into his friend’s bloodstream.

“Okay, buddy, let’s see,” Mac said, keeping up a steady stream of words—basically meaningless, but purposeful in their effort to make sure neither of them felt alone.

He turned the dart over in his hand, immediately running through all of the possible tranquilizers and side effects. Eyes shifting to the animal tracks he’d spotted earlier, he realized it was probably meant for the wolves, if it was this close to the hunting blind Gray had set up. And if that was the case, it could be ketamine or Xylazine.

Hands shaking, he muttered a prayer to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in that it was ketamine. The side effects there were bad enough, but with Xylazine…well, there was a reason it was called the ‘zombie drug.’ His eyes skimmed the label on the side of the small metal cylinder, his vision blurring as he tried to focus on the miniscule writing.

“There,” he whispered to himself as the chemical compound of C13H16ClNO finally became visible. “Thank God.” _Ketamine_.

It was impossible to tell how much had been injected into Jack—enough to render him almost immediately unconscious, which was worrying enough. Mac checked his friend’s pulse again and was relieved there wasn’t a change. Mentally reviewing the side effects, he knew Jack was in for possible impaired motor function, increased heart rate, delirium, hallucinations, and possible temporary amnesia—and that was _after_ the tranquilizing effects wore off.

Mac pocketed the dart, sitting on his haunches and looking around their environment. One thing was immediately clear: they couldn’t stay where they were. The cold was bad enough, but they were clearly on a hunting path for either wolves or some other animal with paw prints bigger than his hand. He needed to find shelter, and soon.

Jack had been lying in the snow long enough, and with the ketamine suppressing his respiration, he was at serious risk of hypothermia. Mac felt his initial panic at Jack being hurt take a back seat to the fire in his brain as he scanned their environment for a way to transport his friend.

He was strong, but Jack was taller and heavier than him. Plus they each had their packs and Jack’s weapons...he needed to be smart about this.

“Trip wire,” he remembered, looking around where Jack lay.

Finding the slim wire coiled up like a stretched spring near the base of a tree close to where they sat in the snow, he tested its strength with a couple hard tugs. Following the trajectory of the wire across the path to where the dart had been triggered, he pulled the firing mechanism free from the snowbank.

He was impressed; whoever laid that trip wire had used both the spring action of a rifle firing pin and a grenade’s launching mechanism to fire the dart. Mac pulled it all free, then went back to Jack. He rolled his partner carefully, removing the man’s pack, and began to transfer as many critical supplies—clothes, MREs, matches, ammo, a flare gun—as he could from Jack’s pack into his own. The rest, he buried in a snow bank next to the nearest tree.

He then emptied Jack’s rifle and slipped the bullets into Jack’s TAC vest. Using his Swiss Army knife, he split Jack’s pack and laid it flat on the snow next to his partner, then stood and scanned the wooded area next to them for the right sized branches.

Moving his goggles to the side, it occurred to him that it had gotten colder as he’d been working. Colder and darker. Glancing up at the sky, he shivered as he saw thick clouds gathering to shadow the once too-bright sun. He moved quickly toward the hunting blind and found some thick enough sticks for what he needed, then returned to Jack.

Frowning, he saw that Jack was also shivering. There wasn’t much he could do until they found shelter, but the sight of his protector looking helpless and vulnerable shot a surge of rage through Mac. He moved as quickly as his cold, gloved fingers allowed, using the remaining trip wire and pack to create a hammock between the two branches, then attached Jack’s rifle to one end using the straps from the pack.

“Pop….” Jack muttered, shifting restlessly.

Mac adjusted Jack’s ski mask to cover more of his friend’s cold face, then as gently as he could, rolled the other man onto the hammock.

“Somethin’s wrong, Pop….” Jack groaned, one hand flailing.

“You’re okay, Jack,” Mac tried to reassure. “I’m getting you out of here.”

He wasn’t certain how long the ketamine would keep Jack under, but it was a pretty safe bet his friend was in for a rough time when he came around. He needed to get him hydrated and warm, and if the sky was any indication, out of the path of the coming storm.

“’s…wet. Sticky,” Jack mumbled, tossing his head. “’s blood. Why’s he bleedin’?”

Mac grimaced, then stepped to the head of the makeshift travois he’d built and lifted the rifle, using the strap as a brace across his hips. Covering his own face once more, he began to pull Jack forward, glancing back to see that his friend was firmly on the pack. Jack’s feet drug twin furrows into the snow, marking their trail, but there wasn’t much Mac could do about that at this point.

There were times having almost total recall was a curse, but at the moment, Mac was relieved as he mentally reviewed their map. There would be no way he could support Jack and confirm their trajectory. He knew which way Jack had traveled from the fire tower, and since his friend hadn’t reported spotting shelter on his way—and Mac knew he’d not seen any in his path—he started to cut through the center of their grid, more or less in the direction he’d seen the man running when he’d first reached Jack.

It was slow going; the pack on his back now weighed as much as he did and Jack’s limp form on the travois pulled and sank into the deep snow. Mac lost count of the number of times he had to dig the edges of the branches free so that he could keep moving. His breath hammered through dry lips and dampened his ski mask, ice crystals collection on the condensation and creating an almost impenetrable shield that he had to keep knocking loose against his shoulder.

The temperature continued to drop.

Despite the effort of pulling Jack behind him, Mac felt himself shivering as the wind picked up, blowing gusts of loose snow across his goggles. He had pulled out Jack’s extra sweatshirt from his pack at one point and did his best to wrap it around his partner, but Jack’s shivering didn’t abate.

When the snow started, Mac couldn’t decide if he wanted to whimper or growl. He was exhausted; as the snow swirled around them, he felt himself stagger. He had the Sat phone; he _could_ radio for an evac, leave Isaac Gray and his information out in the Northwest Territory.

“Somethin’s wrong,” Jack was muttering in their comm as Mac paused at a clearing to catch his breath. “Feel it. Pop. I feel it.”

Mac pushed his goggles down around his neck, looking down at Jack, worried. He lowered the rifle and crouched down next to Jack. Pulling off a glove, he felt his friend’s face beneath the ski mask, but they were both so cold he could barely register the feel of skin let alone temperature. He shrugged out of his pack and removed his canteen.

Crouching down next to Jack, he pulled his friend’s ski mask away from his mouth.

“Easy, Jack,” he soothed, hoping his partner heard him through the comms as the wind stole his words.

“’s cutting…needles in my skin….” Jack turned his face away from the canteen and Mac had to shuffle closer, pulling Jack against him to brace his head.

“C’mon, man,” Mac encouraged. “Just a little water.”

“Cutting me, Pop,” Jack whined, his voice achingly young.

“It’s okay, man,” Mac tried, his heart twisting at the break in Jack’s voice. He didn’t know what Jack was talking about, but he desperately wanted to drag him out of it. “I have you, Jack. I’m here, okay?”

“’s not fair, Pop.”

“You can say that again, partner,” Mac said, finally getting Jack to swallow some of the water.

Capping the canteen and covering Jack’s face once more, he stood and started to shoulder his pack when he caught sight of something moving out of the corner of his eye. A shadow, no more, the blowing snow making it impossible to focus.

His mouth went dry. _Wolf? Mountain lion? Gray?_

The wind screamed, surging and battering against him as he turned to check their perimeter. The cover of the trees was gone; around them now were miles of open field and snow. He’d started to make his way toward the head of the travois once more—dragging his too-heavy pack and contemplating building a snow cave to shelter inside until the storm passed—when he saw the shadow move again.

This time, Mac could see it more clearly: it was a person.

Mac tensed, his mind flying in multiple directions at once: _Jack, cover, exposed, storm, fight, safety, attack_.

“Hey!” he shouted, moving deliberately away from Jack and the travois. The shadow followed him. “Hey, I’m over here!” He waved his arms, watching as the figure turned as though to run.

Knowing his partner would have stuffed him in a snow bank for this move, were he conscious, Mac charged.  He ran toward the greyed image, edges made fuzzy by the falling snow, his only clear thought that he had to keep the any danger _away from Jack_. With a roar born of frustration and fatigue, Mac launched himself at the figure as it turned to escape, colliding with his midsection and dragging him to the ground.

The move would have worked perfectly to give Mac the advantage and find out who was tracking them if it hadn’t been for the fact that the figure had been standing at the edge of a steep hill.

The minute they hit the ground, the snow collapsed beneath them and Mac felt himself rolling, helpless to stop his decent. The other man tumbled with him, his bulk crushing the air from Mac’s lungs as he rolled over the smaller agent. A large, snow-covered boulder stopped Mac’s decent with abrupt force, shoving a cry of pain from his lips as his ribs caved with the impact.

Lying still a moment, desperately trying to capture his breath once more, Mac waited until the world slowed its crazy spin before lifting his head. Snow collected on his lashes and burned his cold skin. The ski mask over his mouth was damp from his rapid breath. He bit back a groan as he rolled to his stomach, dragging his knees slowly under him.

“That went well,” he panted, turning to see where the other man had landed.

Instead, he saw salvation.

It was a small cabin—most likely a ranger’s station of some kind. The man he’d tackled was nowhere to be seen, the path his body had taken down the hill a deep furrow in the snow. Mac pushed unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself against the boulder that had stopped his fall.

His ribs protested, a sharp pain shooting across his torso with enough force he caught his breath, a hand immediately going to his side. He looked around, trying to assess if the cabin was occupied and jerked in surprise as the tall figure of a man rose up from behind another boulder not twenty feet away.

“в следующий раз,” the man shouted.

Mac blinked, stumbling back, his brain scrambling to translate what he recognized as Russian. _Next time_.

Before Mac could reply, the man turned and disappeared into the storm. Huffing out a breath, Mac shook his head, then looked back up the hill he’d just tumbled down. As he began his painful climb, he calculated exactly how screwed they were.

Isaac Gray was as good as a ghost, their only contact so far was a man who spoken Russian—which didn’t bode well for Gray’s fate if he held intel on the FSB—and who had certainly spotted the cabin, same as Mac.

Their salvation could end up being a trap.

The pain in Mac’s side spiked as he panted through the climb. He knew the cold air was turning the lining of his lungs into ice crystals. If he didn’t get them indoors soon, he’d be coughing up blood from burst vessels in his lungs and Jack would become hypothermic until his heart stopped while he was unconscious.

He had no other choice. He had to take shelter in the cabin.

Finally reaching the top, Mac fell face-first into the snow, completely spent. Turning his head so that he could drag in rough breaths, he pushed himself up on trembling limbs, blinking the snow from his eyes to find where he’d left Jack. His goggles forgotten where they hung around his neck, he rubbed his vision clear with the back of his gloved hand and crawled forward until he reached the travois.

“Jack,” he rasped.

His vision blurred and he shook his head quickly to clear it. Jack wasn’t moving. The restless muttering from before was silent. Mac felt his heart slam against his ribs.

“Jack?” His voice shook.

He pulled a glove off with his teeth, then reached for Jack’s ski mask. His hand was shaking. The ski mask caught on Jack’s lower lip, causing it to bounce slightly against his teeth as he pulled it down, snow immediately collecting against Jack’s mouth.

Mac felt his breath catching in his freezing lungs, his ever-whirring mind skidding to a stuttering halt. He shoved his fingers under the ski mask, seeking Jack’s neck, holding his breath….

_There_. Pulse, strong and steady.

His vision swam with heady relief. Bending over his partner’s chest, Mac let out a strangled breath.

“Don’t scare me like that, man.”

Jack shifted abruptly beneath him, a sharp cry of fear or pain skimming across the tension emanating from Mac like a stone across a deceptively smooth pond. Mac sat up quickly, wincing as the motion stabbed at his side.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he rambled, his hand up by Jack’s face, pulling the goggles away from Jack’s face when he realized the older agent’s eyes were open and he was trying to see around him. “Jack, you’re okay, it’s okay.”

Jack’s hands reached up clumsily and Mac caught one, thumb to thumb, bringing it against his chest. He swallowed, meeting Jack’s confused gaze squarely.

“Where’s Pop?” Jack asked, his voice ragged. Mac realized with chagrin that Jack’s voice was slapping against the frigid air, not echoing in his ear through their comms.

“He’s not here, Jack,” he said, making sure he was heard over the shrill wail of wind. “ _I’m_ here.”

Jack blinked snow from his eyes, looking at Mac as though the younger man was a lifeline. “You’re here,” he repeated.

“I’ve got you,” Mac promised, gripping Jack’s hand tightly.

Jack’s eyes grew heavy, the snow on his lashes falling to his cheeks as his blinks grew slower. “Don’t let go.”

As he felt the older man relax back into unconsciousness, Mac whispered in reply, “Not an option, partner.”

Reassured that Jack was alive, though chilled through and partially buried in snow, Mac covered his partner’s face back up as best he could, then stood and shouldered his heavy pack, groaning softly as the weight shifted something along his ribs. He picked up the rifle and started for the hill, ignoring the slick sweat of anxiety that immediately coated the back of his neck and his upper lip at the thought of hauling Jack down that steep incline.

His boots slid in the snow. He caught himself as the travois slipped to the side, Jack’s limp body dragging along the surface. Regaining his balance, Mac carried on, righting the travois, but a minute later, he slid again, landing on a bent knee, his ribs screaming in protest.

“ _Ahhhh_ … _fuck_ ,” Mac groaned, wanting to press a hand against his side, but unable to release the rifle lest he drop Jack into the snow.

He fought to stay upright, his muscles quaking from the combination weight and effort. Over the periodic scream of the wind, he heard a mournful howl with echoing yips of a wolf pack. It was impossible to tell where the animals were, except that there were near. Mac tried to move faster, but slid in the snow once more, going to his knees, the travois sliding past him, tugging him over to his side.

“Just a little help,” he breathed. It was said like a prayer before sleeping: asking forgiveness and only half sorry. “All I’m asking.”

Gasping, the frigid air sucking the moisture from his eyes and burning his skin, Mac pushed to his feet once more and trudged forward, finally reaching level ground, the snow so deep it pressed against his thighs as he waded toward the cabin. The yips of the wolf pack grew louder and suddenly Mac realized he could hear a growl to his left. He chanced a look over his shoulder and saw a large grey wolf standing just beyond the boulder that had stopped his fall earlier. The snow dusting the animal’s coat gave off the impression it had been sitting there for quite some time, almost as if it were waiting for him.

“Oh, shit,” Mac muttered, trying to move faster.

But he was spent.

His breath rasped in his throat, rattled his freezing lungs. He knew it wasn’t typical of wolves to attack people unless they were protecting their territory, or starving. He was counting on neither of those possibilities being an option at this point. He put his head down and pulled Jack forward, bracing himself for the wolves to attack.

He made it to the front door of the ranger’s cabin in one piece. As he pulled his Swiss Army knife from his pocket with shaking hands, he chanced a look back. The wolf was still there, watching, its calculating gaze raking Mac’s figure and he imagined he felt the impression of judgement left behind.

Picking the lock took longer than Mac needed it to, but soon enough the door was open and he was falling through the opening, landing inside the small cabin on his hands and knees. Gasping, winded, he turned and grabbed Jack under the arms and pulled him from the travois into the cabin, kicking the door shut behind him. For a moment, he simply sat and shivered, Jack sprawled in a heap across his lap.

It was almost completely dark inside.

One small window graced the west wall, letting in the fading ambient light leftover from the afternoon storm. His breath rasping loudly against the quiet of the interior and his body shaking from the cold, Mac eased himself out from underneath Jack and used the wall and door to gain his feet. He felt his way around the edge of the cabin until his hip bounced against a table and he heard the distinct metallic rattle of a gas lantern.

Stiffly, he slipped his pack from his shoulders, digging into the front pocket of his TAC vest for waterproof matches, and in moments had the lantern lit and illuminating the interior of the small cabin. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust—enough that Mac’s fingertips had left tracks on the side of the lantern. It was a miracle the thing had fuel. Cobwebs clung precariously in the corners, their architects having vacated long ago.

Maps of the area were tacked to one wall. A table, chair, and some shelves of canned food and cooking pots were near where Mac stood. A wrought-iron, pot-bellied combination cook stove and fireplace sat in the middle of the room, its metal chimney exiting through the roof. Multiple cords of wood were stacked along the wall behind it, and nearby was an old-model Army cot.

Stripping his ski mask and hood off, remembering at the last minute to get rid of the goggles around his neck, Mac made his way over to where Jack lay slumped on the floor inside the door.

“C’mon, Jack,” he muttered, grabbing his friend under the arms once more and dragging him to the cot. “Let’s get you off the floor.”

Lifting the older man’s bulk to the cot made his ribs scream and Mac grit his teeth so hard he felt his jaw pop. Once Jack was lying on the cot, Mac turned his attention toward warming the place up; they were both shaking so much from the cold it was hard to think. Thanks to the fire starter resting on top of the stack of logs, Mac was able to get a fire lit in the cook stove in minutes, the heat reaching welcome fingers throughout the cabin.

Kneeling in front of the cook stove, Mac suddenly felt immeasurably tired, his eyes drooping as his body shivered. Everything ached; he just wanted to rest. Just for a little while.

_“Mac.”_

His head snapped up at the sound of that voice, blurry vision scanning his surroundings, for one brief moment forgetting where he was. He looked over at Jack, but saw his partner was still out cold. It was then he realized, it hadn’t been _Jack’s_ voice grabbing his attention…it had been his Granddad’s. The one voice that had been able to push him his whole life, no matter the obstacle, no matter the loss.

“Okay, Harry,” he rasped in the quiet of the cabin. “I hear you.”

Groaning, he pushed to his feet, moving slowly over to the bunk, pulling Jack from his snow-encrusted, frozen gear as gently as possible. He stripped Jack out of his boots, coat, and head gear, laying them over the stack of wood to dry, covering his friend with what looked like an Army-issue woolen blanket that had been folded at the foot of the cot.

Jack didn’t have many extra clothes and Mac’s spare sweatshirt wasn’t big enough to cover him, so he had to make do with the blanket and heat from the cook stove. Jack continued to sleep off the effects of the tranquilizer dart, his shivering beginning to lessen as the room heated up around them.

Mac stripped out of his own cold, wet gear, lifting his T-shirt to get a look at his ribs. Broken blood vessels radiated out from a center bruise, coloring his entire left side with the varied blue hues of a deep bruise.

“Well, that’s pretty,” he muttered as he eyed the damage.

A gentle prodding indicated that while he probably had cracked a couple ribs, nothing was broken. All he had in his pack to support them was a roll of duct tape and pulling that off would be a bitch. He decided to forgo bandaging unless he absolutely had to.

Dragging his spare sweatshirt over his head, he returned to Jack and checked to see if his shivering had stopped, sitting at the head of the cot and gathering his partner’s head up against the crook of his arm as he tried to get more water into him. Jack had already woken up once and been semi-coherent, so Mac had to prepare for the tranquilizer to wear off soon and the after effects to kick in.

He wasn’t wrong.

Within an hour, Jack started to hyperventilate, eyes flying open as he stared sightlessly across the room, screaming about a horse and barbed wire. Mac held him by the shoulders, trying to soothe him as best he could, heart breaking as Jack continued to call out for his father.

“It’s okay. Jack… _Jack_! It’s okay. It’s not real,” Mac said, climbing onto the cot behind his partner and wrapping his arms around Jack’s shoulders. After a moment he realized he was practically rocking the older man in an attempt to reassure him. “It’s not real, man. There’s no barbed wire.”

“It’s gonna cut ‘im all up, Pop. We gotta do something….” Jack whimpered, his hands reflexively reaching up to grasp Mac’s wrists. “’s my fault…. ’s my fault.”

At that, Jack sobbed, a deep, wracking sound, his shoulders shaking against Mac’s chest, the younger man unable to do anything but hold on. Mac tightened his grip, running out of reassuring words and resorting to softly _shhh_ -ing his partner to try to alleviate his fear.

“’m sorry, Pop,” Jack whimpered.

“It’s okay, Jack,” Mac said softly, rubbing the top of his partner’s buzzed hair as he finally started to calm down. “It’s not your fault.”

Mac leaned back against the wall, Jack still resting against him, fatigue pulling at his eyelids, but before he was able to fall completely asleep, Jack groaned and rolled to his side, curling inward as though in pain. It took Mac a moment to blink himself aware, but once he did, he realized immediately what was about to happen.

Launching himself from the cot, Mac scrambled to the shelves of canned food and grabbed the largest cooking pot available, sliding across the floor like he was stealing home and getting the pot into position just as Jack retched over the edge of the cot, body shaking as it fought to rid itself of the ketamine poison.

“Easy, man,” Mac soothed, a hand on Jack’s back. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Jack retched again, nothing but bile coming up, and groaned in misery. As he caught his breath, leaning back onto the cot, Mac grabbed the canteen and rested it against Jack’s mouth, exhaling in relief when the older agent rinsed out his mouth then drank without aid. As Jack lay back and closed his eyes, one arm draped across his forehead, Mac grabbed the one towel he found over by the pots and pans and then stepped outside into the storm.

Dumping the contents of the pot, he filled it with snow and used his glove to thoroughly clean it of filth before filling it with snow once more. He gathered more snow in a pocket of the towel and ducked back inside, shivering. Putting the pot on top of the cook stove, he used the snow-packed towel to clean Jack’s face.

He flinched, startled, when his partner opened his eyes and stared at him, clarity and recognition present for the first time in hours.

“Mac?” Jack’s voice was hoarse, raspy, as though he’d been screaming for hours.

“Hey,” Mac smiled, his shoulders sag with relief.

“What…how…where…?” Jack started to rise up on his elbows, but stopped, his face going pale as he lay back with a groan and covered his eyes with his forearm.

“All excellent questions,” Mac said, offering Jack more water.

As he watched his partner drink, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time _he’d_ taken in water—his cracked lips and wind-burned face evidence that it had been a while.

“How are you feeling?” Mac returned his own question before answering Jack’s.

“Like hammered shit,” Jack moaned, one hand gripping the side of the cot. “Last night was _not_ worth it.”

Mac chuffed. “You’re not hungover, man.”

“Well, I sure am something,” Jack replied grumpily. He dropped his arm and turned his face toward the cook stove, then stared at where Mac was kneeling next to him. “Why do you look like you went ten rounds with a snow blower?”

Mac grinned. “Because I pretty much did.”

Jack squinted. “I wanna sit up.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jack groused. “You gonna help me or just sit over there and be smart?”

Mac pushed to his feet and leaned over, grasping one of Jack’s arms and helping the man shift on the cot until he was able to push to a sitting position. As Mac straightened, his damaged ribs protested and he hissed reflexively, a hand going to his side. A glance down at Jack’s expression told him the move had not been missed.

“I’m fine, Jack.”

Jack leveled his gaze on Mac, the line between his brows calling the younger man out.

“I’m… _mostly_ fine,” Mac amended, stepping back and dropping heavily into the wooden chair across the small room.

Jack arched an eyebrow.

“Okay, I’ll _be_ fine when we get outta here. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” Jack grumbled, then looked around. “Uh…where is… _here_ exactly?”

“You were hit with a tranquilizer dart,” Mac informed him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Jack closed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Something about…wolves. And a treehouse?”

“You remember the mission?”

Jack rested his elbows on his knees, groaning as he held his aching head in the hammock of his palms. “All that’s coming to me is _Fifty Shades of Gray_ , and I _know_ that can’t be right.”

Mac chuckled. “CIA Agent named _Isaac_ Gray…went rogue…,” Mac started, spacing out the facts to see if anything triggered Jack’s memory. The ketamine amnesia was typically short-lived. “Has intel on— “

“Russians, right,” Jack nodded. “Sent us in to talk the guy into coming back. I got it now. So, what’s with Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”

Mac sighed, blinking slowly as he stared at the fire inside the cook stove, recounting an abbreviated version of the last six hours. As predicted, Jack reacted angrily when he reached the part about falling down the hill because he’d gone after the Russian.

Mac let his partner have his over-protective tantrum. He was too tired to fight back.

“Dude, you look beat,” Jack observed, once he’d calmed down.

“’m okay. We gotta radio the Phoenix,” Mac said, surprised by the slur of his words. “This storm…there’s no way Gray is out there in this and this is the only shelter ’ve found….”

“Fine,” Jack nodded. “Where’s the Sat phone?”

“Pack,” Mac lifted his chin in the direction of his pack.

Jack pushed himself to his feet, thrusting one hand against the wall to catch his balance. Mac felt like he was moving underwater—he shifted to help his friend but before he could get to his feet, Jack had staggered in an uncoordinated gait to the pack and was on his knees, digging out the Sat phone.

“Hey…where’s _my_ pack?”

Mac leaned against the table, propping up his head on his hand. “Had to use it to make a travois,” he yawned through the words. “Couldn’t carry you.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re like a hundred pounds soaking wet,” Jack grumbled, pulling out the rest of the supplies from the pack, sighing with obvious relief when he found his Glock. “Where’s my rifle?”

Mac frowned. “Shit, sorry. I had to use it to pull you. Left it outside with the wolf.”

At that, Jack turned. “Wolf? What wolf?”

“The big one that was watchin’ me,” Mac replied, barely able to keep his eyes open. His whole body ached, his ribs beating their own unique tattoo, but even with that throbbing reminder of the trek he’d made, he was pretty sure he could sleep just fine right where he sat.

“Yeah, okay, bud,” Jack muttered, then turned his back to Mac.

It took the younger agent a moment to realize that Jack was trying to connect to the Phoenix. It surprised him when Jack slumped a bit, cursing.

“What?” Mac asked, straightening up, suddenly more alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t get a signal.”

“On a _Sat_ phone?”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Storm must be blocking the satellite signal.”

Mac was on his feet before he registered standing. “I could use— “

“Hold it right there, bud,” Jack broke in, raising one hand. “Storms don’t last forever. Get some sleep and we’ll call the Phoenix tomorrow.”

“But, Jack, you were hit with a dart full of ketamine, and— “

“And I pretty much have the worst hangover of my life,” Jack interrupted, rubbing his forehead. “No worries on falling down the k-hole for this Texas boy.”

Mac frowned, swaying with fatigue, one hand grabbing the edge of the table for balance.

“But I’m okay,” Jack continued, setting the Sat phone back in the pack and turning around. “And you’re dead on your feet.”

Mac paused, considering. “Tomorrow,” he agreed, sinking back down to the chair.

“Take the cot,” Jack ordered.

Mac shook his head. “No way—you’ve been unconscious for the last six hours and nearly froze to death out there. You’re not sleeping on the floor.”

Jack’s eyebrows climbed to impressive heights on his forehead. “And you hauled someone twice your size through frozen tundra and then body slammed a boulder. _You’re_ not sleeping on the floor.”

Mac sighed. He _was_ pretty sore. “Think there’s room for both of us?”

“We’ll make room,” Jack replied.

While Mac went to the cook stove and moved the pot of melted snow to the table to cool, Jack stood and made his way to the door, stepping outside to retrieve his rifle. He set it near the stove to thaw. After refilling their canteens with the snow water—and immediately drinking half of his, even if it was on the warm side—Mac blew out the lantern to conserve the fuel and added more logs to the fire.

With twin groans of exhaustion, they lay down back to back—Jack facing the fire, Mac the cabin wall at his insistence—and Mac felt his body tick down like a cooling engine. His muscles twitched, his eyes burned, his face stung, but for the first time since boarding that helicopter two days ago, he felt safe.

“Mac.” Jack’s voice startled him.

“Yeah?”

“If I told you…that I couldn’t stop thinking about my horse, Whiskey, would that make sense to you?”

Mac swallowed. “Did Whiskey get tangled up in barbed wire?”

Jack was quiet a moment and Mac felt the older man’s shoulders tense up against his back.

“I talked about him, didn’t I?”

Mac nodded, knowing his partner could feel the motion.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

The quiet was heavy with memory and sorrow.

“You okay, Jack?” Mac asked.

Jack exhaled slowly, as though he were counting the heartbeats inside the sound. “Not yet.”

Mac was quiet for a moment. He could barely keep his eyes open, but…Jack needed him. There hadn’t been a time since he met the man that Jack hadn’t gone to great lengths to keep Mac in one piece—physically and emotionally.

“I’m not going anywhere, man.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jack’s voice was soft, his acknowledgment somewhat reluctant.

Mac waited for his partner to say something else, but in that pause, exhaustion won and he fell into a restless sleep, dreams of snow and wolves and Jack wrapped up in barbed wire chasing him in the dark until he was woken by another shout. He opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented to see nothing but a wall of wood, until he felt something shake against his back.

Sitting up awkwardly, he twisted as much as his aching body would allow to find Jack gripping the edge of the cot, breath exhaling in pained gasps, as he body flinched and arched. _Muscle spasms_ , Mac remembered. It looked like they weren’t out of the woods yet.

“Easy, Jack,” Mac soothed, his deep voice like ground glass against his dry throat. He scooted to the end of the cot to climb off rather than crawl over his partner. “It’s the ketamine.”

“I f-find who-whoever did this to m-me I’m gonna k-kill ‘em.”

Mac nodded in sympathetic agreement, lighting the gas lantern once more to examine the shelves of canned food, remedies and solutions skipping through his tired mind. He grabbed a half-used bottle of apple cider vinegar, then picked up the towel and pot he’d packed with snow earlier and headed for the door.

“Wh-were’re you goin’?” Jack panted, raising his head slightly and wincing at the motion.

“I’ll be right back,” Mac assured him, then darted outside into the cold and dark.

Several hours had clearly passed while they’d been sleeping; the storm had lessened in intensity and the sky had started to clear in the east. He packed the towel with snow once more, then filled the pot and headed back inside. Jack had rolled to his back, but his hands were fisted at his side.

Mac set the pot on the stove, stoking the fire with more wood, then moved over to Jack.

“Where’s the worst of it?” he asked.

“M-my leg,” Jack panted, not even bothering to assume the tough-guy persona.

Mac nodded; folding the snow-packed towel into a cold compress, he wrapped it around Jack’s thigh where he’d been hit with the dart, then moved across the room to find a tin coffee mug and fill it with snow from the pot. As soon as the water was heated, he poured some of the apple cider vinegar into it and returned to Jack.

“I need you to drink this,” he said, helping his partner sit up enough he could get the mug to his lips.

“Gah,” Jack jerked his head away. “Smells like rotten f-food, man.”

“Probably not gonna taste much better, but it’ll help with the muscle cramps,” Mac told him.

Jack sipped the heated water until Mac was satisfied, then lay back. Mac grabbed his dried pack and put it against the wall as padding, then settled down to sit on the floor next to the bunk, his head near Jack’s.

“This sucks so bad,” Jack moaned. “What’s the point of a tr-tranqualizer tr-trip wire?”

Mac sighed, resting his elbow on the cot and his head on his hand. “I’m guessing, based on the hunting blind nearby, he was after game that the wolves would chase through that pass and didn’t want to deal with the wolves.” He coughed into the crook of his arm, his chest feeling tight. “I don’t know, man. Who knows what this guy’s thinking.”

A ripple went through Jack as he groaned, pressing against the cot again. “Talk t-to me, Mac.”

“’bout what?” Mac pushed himself sluggishly to his feet and moved the pot of water from the cook stove before it began to boil.

Glancing down at Jack, he saw the muscle spasms shake the older man’s legs and he sat on the edge of the cot. Adjusting the cold compress, he began to massage the rock-hard muscle in Jack’s calf, grimacing in sympathy as Jack tried in vain to breathe through the pain.

“Anything,” he whimpered.

“Well…,” Mac’s normally lithe mind was tempered with exhaustion. It was unusual to truly experience such a blank canvas of ideas. “You called for your dad a lot while you were out. Not sure why the ketamine made you hallucinate what happened to your horse, but you were pretty damn sure it was happening again. Guess your dad did a lot to help you then, huh?”

“Y-yeah,” Jack nodded shakily, tears of tension and pain slipping from the corners of his eyes and finding their way to the greying hairs at his temple. Mac shifted his attempts to alleviate the cramp from one leg to the other as he felt the muscles release their tightness. “Pop was always exactly where I needed him…wh-when I needed him. That thing with Whiskey was…awful. Probably the w-worst moment of my young life.”

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?” Mac asked quietly.

Jack’s face folded into sorrow, his fisted hands starting to unclench. “Most of me knows it,” he said, his breath beginning to even out. “But…sometimes my brain punches my heart…y’know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Mac nodded, slipping off the cot to resume his position next to Jack’s head.

Jack took a slow, deep breath, letting it out on a four-count, visibly trying to relax his muscles. “You know…even with all these random clues and mystery surrounding him…you never really talk about your dad.”

Mac nodded, though Jack couldn’t see him. “It’s hard to remember him,” he confessed. “I don’t know if what I remember is real, or just…what I _want_ to be real.”

“Yeah, I don’t have many clear memories from before I was ten,” Jack acknowledged. “Mostly what I remember is from seeing my mom’s picture albums and such.”

“I remember building models with him,” Mac said, eyes drooping as Jack’s body began to relax next to him. “I remember the look on his face when he told me Mom was gone. I remember…the way he smelled. Coffee and tobacco—like _actual_ tobacco, not cigarettes. He had this way of sitting back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head and his eyes closed when he was really listening to me—like he was trying to paint a word picture on the back of his eyelids. I remember thinking we had the same hands.” Mac tipped his head to the side, resting it on his folded arm. “But…I can’t remember what his voice sounds like. And I don’t remember his laugh.” He coughed again, closing his eyes, his voice drifting. “And it doesn’t really look like he wants me to anyway.”

“You’ll find him, kid,” Jack tried to reassure him.

“Maybe,” Mac muttered, adjusting his head on his arms. “But…sometimes I think we choose to believe lies to protect our hearts from the truth.” Jack was quiet and Mac felt bad for bringing the mood so low. “I remember Harry, though,” he offered.

“Yeah,” Jack said softly. “He filled in those blanks, didn’t he?”

“Mmmhmm,” Mac agreed, lacking the energy to carry the conversation further.

Either Jack’s muscle cramps eased, or he dealt with them silently because Mac didn’t open his eyes again until several hours later, sunlight streaming in through the small window and spearing him in the eyes. He was surprised to find the Army blanket had somehow found its way around his shoulders. His muscles were painfully stiff from sitting on the floor, leaning against the cot, and his ribs screamed at him as he made his way to his feet.

Jack was asleep, arms wrapped around himself, the wet towel that had been a cold compress sitting in a wet pile on the floor. The fire had died down and Mac took care of that first, before he pulled on his coat to step outside, since there wasn’t a bathroom in the ranger’s cabin.

The snow was hip-deep at the front of the cabin; he had to wade through it to the side of the cabin where the drifts were lower. The quiet of the morning permeated everything, making him realize how accustomed he was to the back-beat of sound in Los Angeles. Noise infiltrated everything—from the constant rumble of traffic, to roar of air traffic, to the hum of power lines, it was never quiet. But here, the silence seemed to thrum against his ears, making him hold his breath in stark anticipation of the unknown as he looked around at the startlingly white, pristine landscape.

There were no footprints around or near the cabin—not even animal tracks. If Isaac Gray was still alive, he’d found some other cover during that storm. And Mac had no way of knowing where that could be until he contacted the Phoenix. Making his way slowly back inside, he grabbed the edge of the travois that stuck out from the snowbank and pulled it into the cabin behind him.

Jack groaned, rolling over on the cot, but didn’t open his eyes. Mac decided to let him rest; there wasn’t much he could do at this point anyway, and he had to still be feeling pretty rough from the ketamine. Shaking the snow from his boots and pant legs, he shrugged out of his coat and covered Jack with the Army blanket before checking their food options.

“What I wouldn’t give for some of Bozer’s pancakes right about now,” Jack mumbled.

Mac grinned. “You’ll have to make due with either, uh…hearty beef stew, hearty beef stew, or…oh! Maybe some hearty beef stew?”

“Beef stew beats MREs,” Jack pointed out, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the cot, looking for all the world like a recalcitrant teenager made to get up early on a Saturday morning.

Mac used the remaining pot and began heating up the stew. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as Jack found his boots and pulled them on with clumsy hands. He knew the lack of coordination had to be getting to his friend; the man could put four hostiles down with two bullets. Needing help to tie his boots was not something that would make him happy.

“I uh…gotta,” Jack stood awkwardly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Little boy’s room thataway?”

Mac nodded. “Side of the cabin the snow is lower. Bring your coat, man.”

“Right.” Jack sighed, grabbing his coat where Mac had draped it over the woodpile to dry.

Mac dug out the Sat phone once more, trying for a signal while Jack was outside. Nothing but dead air. He began examining the device and frowned in frustration when he saw part of the housing was cracked. When the door opened once more, letting his partner back into the warmth of the cabin, he’d already pulled the phone apart and was trying to repair the damage done to it in his fall down the hill.

“I swear, bud,” Jack said, stripping his coat off with a groan. “You haven’t met a phone you won’t break.”

“It got damaged when I fell yesterday,” Mac replied, looking up at Jack. “Whoa, Jack, you’re awfully pale.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, this ketamine stuff’s a bitch.”

“You get sick again?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Drink lots of water,” Mac advised. “Can’t afford for you to get dehydrated up here.”

“Roger that,” Jack sighed, draining a canteen in reply.

Mac reassembled the housing and tried the Sat phone again. Nothing but static. He sighed. If he could set up a satellite in one of the taller trees around the perimeter of the cabin, he could rig a connection strong enough to link up to the Phoenix and get an exfil, Gray or no Gray. He stood and began to scour the contents of the cabin.

“You looking for something?” Jack asked, pulling the heated stew from the stove.

Mac mumbled his idea as he gathered up what he could use for a satellite: a silver-based campfire frying pan, the trip wire from the travois, the wrappers from his last two sticks of gum, batteries and wiring from his small Maglite, and the flare cartridge from their flare gun. He was so focused on making sure he had everything he needed in the now-emptied back that he didn’t see Jack’s look of incredulity.

“And you’re going to put this contraption where?”

Mac glanced up as he pulled the rest of the travois apart, breaking the sticks over his knees and constructing snow shoes out of the remains of Jack’s pack. “One of the trees out there on the perimeter.”

“You’re in no shape to go climbing trees, Mac.”

“I’m fine,” Mac scoffed, his body buzzing with the adrenalin born of a mission. “Besides, it’s not like we have a choice.”

Jack huffed. “Fine, then. I’m coming with you.”

Mac stood up, the snow shoes attached to his boots. “No, Jack. Look—this isn’t me being macho or anything.” He held up a hand when his partner opened his mouth to protest. “You’re clearly still feeling the effects of the ketamine and I can move faster on my own.”

“What about the wolves? Or that mysterious Russian?”

“Long as I stay away from their territory,” Mac shrugged, “the wolves should leave me alone. Uh, I think. And if that Russian guy is out there, he’s probably going to head to the cabin first, so it’s better for you to stay here with all the weapons.”

Jack paused, studying him. Mac lived four lifetimes in that pause.

“Take my sweatshirt,” he said finally, pulling the heavy material over his head.

“Jack— “ Mac started.

“Eh! I don’t want to hear it. Your Tauntaun will freeze before you hit the first marker, so just…indulge me.”

Mac huffed. “Fine.”

He set down his pack and coat, grabbing Jack’s sweatshirt and pulling it over his head. “It’s way too big,” he complained.

Jack grinned at him. “Gives you room to grow.”

“Very funny.”

Jack helped him gear up—leaving his TAC vest behind to save the weight—but stopped him just before he opened the door.

“Comms check?”

Mac looked down. “They stopped working yesterday,” he confessed.

“So you’re saying you go out there and I won’t even be able to check in on you?” Jack’s face was thunderous.

Mac licked his lips. “Tell you what. Give me two hours. If I can’t get this handled in that time, you can come after me.”

“How’m I gonna know which way you went?” Jack challenged.

“We are practically the only human beings up here,” Mac grinned. “Follow the footprints.”

Jack huffed, clearly not liking this one bit, but opened the door for Mac to exit. Mac refused to look back as he headed toward the tree line, simply raising his fist in the air as a salute and exhaling when he heard the cabin door shut behind him.

His breath tugged against his lungs and he felt his ribs contract. The few hours of sleep he’d gotten sitting up next to Jack’s cot was not enough to repair the muscle exhaustion and in no time he was panting, desperate for breath.

Reaching the tree line, he searched for one that was tall enough to fix his make-shift satellite, with low enough branches he wouldn’t have to stretch too far to climb. The perfect option made itself known just beyond his old friend, the snow-covered boulder. Detaching the snowshoes, Mac began to climb, forcing himself to ignore his trembling muscles and aching hands. He slipped twice, once hanging from one arm and stretching the bruised muscles along his ribs, his cry of pain echoing out across the snow-barren landscape.

When he was high enough, he balanced himself on the thickest branch he could find and pulled off his pack, hooking it on a mirroring branch. Making the satellite wasn’t hard—it reminded him of the models he and his dad would build together when he was in grade school. He hadn’t thought about that in years, but then the home movie he’d found at his dad’s burned-down cabin had him flashing back…plus Jack’s questions last night…and he could not get his father out of his head.

In minutes he’d created the make-shift satellite and was attaching the Sat phone, using the squelch knob to find a line that could connect him to the Phoenix. When Matty answered, Mac felt weak with relief.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” he confessed.

_“It’s good to hear you, too. We thought we’d hear from you yesterday,”_ Matty said, and Mac could hear her trying to temper her worry with authority.

“We’ve run into some trouble,” Mac reported. “Haven’t located Gray and Jack got hit with a ketamine dart.”

_“What’s Jack’s condition?”_

“He’s stable—basically dealing with the worst hangover of his life,” Mac said. “Any new intel on Gray?”

_“Mac.”_ He smiled, recognizing Riley’s voice. _“I can see your location on our satellite, but you haven’t been showing up for the past 24 hours.”_

“Yeah, I…uh, I kinda fell down a hill and broke our Sat phone,” Mac replied, wincing. “Had to rig up something to get through to you guys.”

_“Okay, so based on your location, Gray is less than a mile from you.”_

“Wait, what?” Mac drew his head back. “He’s alive?”

_“And moving your way,”_ Riley reported.

“How are you able to see him?”

_“He turned on his phone about twelve hours ago.”_

“Probably because of the storm,” Mac mused. He cleared his throat, shifting on the branch as his ribs whimpered at him. “Okay, Matty?”

_“Right here, Mac.”_

“Can you call in an exfil for us?”

_“You okay, Mac?”_ Riley chimed in. _“You don’t sound so good.”_

“Just cold. And…tired,” he reassured her. And hungry, he realized. In his haste to get the Sat phone working, he’d forgotten all about the hearty beef stew. “If Gray’s a mile from us, I’m going to say we get him and get out of here.”

_“I can get someone there in twenty-four hours,”_ Matty confirmed. _“Same location as drop zone.”_

“Roger that,” Mac confirmed. “And, uh…guys?”

_“Right here, Mac.”_

“Next time? We use comms. The whole time.”

He heard Matty take a breath.

“I don’t care what the CIA protocol is,” he added. “We work better as a team. Always have.”

_“You got it, Mac,”_ Matty reassured him. _“Now, get out of that tree and out of the cold.”_

“How’d you know I was in a tree?” Mac asked, grinning.

_“I’ve been paying attention,”_ she replied. _“Phoenix out.”_

Mac chuckled, turning off the Sat phone and tucking it back into his pack. As he was reaching for the frying pan satellite dish, he heard something to his right—it sounded like a zipper or polyester fabric rubbing together. It was subtle, but in the silence around him, unmistakable. He shifted slightly on his branch and had roughly one second to register a tall figure in white camo standing on the rise of a nearby hill before something slammed into his side, knocking him off-balance.

He fell backwards, his flailing arms striking tree branches all the way down, until he landed in a deep snowbank with a quiet _ooff_ of air. The impact of his body into the snow had him sinking far enough there were shallow walls of snow around him. Winded, he stared straight up into the tops of the swaying trees, the silence overtaking him once more.

Survival instinct overrode any battlefield precaution and Mac tried to pull in a breath, his panicked lungs forgetting to inflate. He blinked, the swaying treetops blurring, and finally, _finally_ dragged in a reedy trickle of air. His bruised ribs seized, the muscles along those fragile bones tensing into a painful cramp.

He couldn’t move; his whole body was stuck. Mentally, Mac screamed at his body to obey him, to pull in _one more breath._ He felt darkness encroaching, easing in from the sidelines like a substitute player at the end of the game.

He knew if he passed out, that was the end. He’d freeze to death before his time limit ended and Jack came to look for him. He forced himself to pull in another breath, trying to kick-start his lungs. His bruised ribs whimpered and the sound slipped up to escape his parted lips. There was no place on his body that wasn’t in pain. Blinking back the blackness, he managed to move an arm out of the gravity-induced snow angel formation and felt along his side.

Protruding from his right flank was the shaft of a cross-bow bolt.

Touching it jarred the wounded flesh and he cried out, his voice thin, as if he was too far from it to give it weight. Air wheezed around the sound like it was being pulled into his lungs through a straw. It occurred to him that whoever shot him could still be around. He listened, trying to hear past the slam of his own pulse, but could pick up no tale-tell sounds of someone moving through deep snow or cocking a crossbow.

Rolling carefully to his bruised side, he managed to sit up slightly, slumped away from the bolt, finally able to gain control of his breathing. Another thought occurred to him: if whoever shot him _wasn’t_ still here, he could have followed Mac’s snowshoe tracks, leading him directly to Jack.

His breathing sped up.

He wouldn’t be able to move with the thing stuck in him, he knew that much. Swallowing the wet taste of bile from the back of his throat, Mac pulled off his gloves and wrapped his hands around the bolt. Taking a bracing breath, he pulled the bolt out in one straight tug.

“ _Ahhhh_!” The shout sent nesting birds from their perch.

His whimpers were audible as he dropped the bolt, his shaking hands pressing over the hole in his coat. He knew there were next steps, action to be taken, but for the moment, all he could focus on was fighting back the gathering black at the edges of his vision.

Pain was a jealous thing.

It refused to allow him to feel anything else while it was present, taking over his senses and flooding his mind so that concentration was a monumental effort. MacGyver’s advantage, however, was the fact that _his_ mind was unlike anyone else’s. It refused to be dominated.

After a minute of blinding pain, the cold began to numb his side. Mac forced himself up to his knees, thinking quickly about how he could bandage up the wound to get to Jack. He’d left his TAC vest back at the cabin and his pack was several impossible feet up a tree. Biting his lip to keep his helpless groan quiet, he tugged off his coat, Jack’s sweatshirt, and his sweatshirt, pulling up his long-sleeved t-shirt to look at the hole.

It was just above his hip and, looking at the tip of the bolt, it didn’t seem to have gone deep enough to hit anything vital. It was bleeding, but not profusely. Taking out his Swiss Army knife, he cut his sweatshirt into strips and put a pressure dressing on the wound, tying the sleeves around his narrow waist to keep it in place. Pulling Jack’s sweatshirt back on, he reached for his coat when a smell hit him.

It was musky, wild. The same smell he’d picked up on when they thought Gray might be hiding in the natural caves. He looked up and around, feeling the blood draining from his face when he saw a thin—but enormous—brown bear lumbering along the ridge line he and Jack had traveled the day before.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, swallowing hard. His hands shook as he slowly, carefully lifted his coat from the snow and began to slide his arms into the sleeves, praying his movement didn’t attracted attention.

No such luck.

He froze when the bear froze. The bear had to get down the hill and past the boulder to reach him. He still had time. But he’d lost his snow shoes and he was winded and wounded and wasn’t going to be running anywhere very fast. His only hope was for the bear to not smell his blood, to move on.

As the big head swiveled in Mac’s direction, he heard a howl pierce the cold of midday, a chill racing down his spine. The sound was close, very close. His breathing rapid from fear, Mac tried to push to his feet, his battered body not quite ready for the effort. He fell back to his knees once, looking up when he heard answering howls echo the first cry.

Just past the boulder, away from Mac but toward the bear, the same large grey wolf emerged from the tree line. It stared at Mac as before, judging, assessing. He forced himself to slow his breathing and stayed on his knees, not wanting to appear threatening in any way. A group of excited yips chimed in after the pack’s haunting howl and suddenly the bear was lumbering away from Mac and the hill, wolves on its tail in cagey pursuit.

Mac scanned the snow around the boulder for sign of the grey wolf, and when he came up empty, he tried once more to gain his footing. Successful, he fastened his coat and made his way slowly through the knee- and hip-deep snow, back toward the cabin, the thought of having left Jack there alone, sick, and without backup driving him forward when exhaustion—and a forty-foot drop—enticed him to simply lay down where he was in the snow.

As he came upon the cabin, the sight that met his eyes had him reflexively reaching for his wounded side. Jack stood in the opened door of the cabin, his rifle at his shoulder, the barrel fixed on a figure on his knees in the snow, hands over his head. Mac made his way forward, eyes scanning the kneeling figure—white camo, no crossbow. This was either not the man who’d shot him, or he was hiding the gear.

“There you are,” Jack said to him by way of greeting. “Meet Isaac Gray.”

“Look, I just want to come inside and get warm,” Gray said, his voice muffled through his ski mask. “I made it through last night in a snow fort, but I am out of supplies.”

“Ain’t that just too damn bad?” Jack returned, unrelenting, his eyes trained with lethal intent on the man in the snow. “What do you think, Mac?”

“Check him for a crossbow,” Mac replied, his eyes hard as he stared at the shivering CIA agent.

“You heard my partner,” Jack replied, not pausing to ask why. “Got yourself a crossbow in that gear, Legolas?”

“No,” Gray shook his head tiredly.

“Well, someone just shot me out of a tree with one,” Mac snapped. He ignored Jack’s flinch at that news and was relieved when his partner didn’t drop the aim of his rifle. “So, unless you have another explanation, there’s a human-shaped dent in the snow back there that says different.”

Gray shifted his focus to MacGyver. “Fine,” he said, dropping his hands and causing tension to ripple through Jack as the former Delta tightened his grip on his rifle. “There are four FSB agents after me.”

Jack moved slightly to the side, out of the doorway, reaching for Mac’s shoulder and pulling the younger man closer in behind him.

“Yeah? And why is that?” he demanded, still not looking at Mac, though his entire body screamed that he wanted to.

“Because my father sent them.”


	3. Chapter 3

_-Jack-_

Jack had dealt with physical pain in his life. He’d been shot, stabbed, beaten bloody, water boarded. He’d been thrown from the back of a horse, kicked by a bull, and smacked by Darcy Collins in the 7th grade. But none of those things met the misery that came with getting shot by a dart full of ketamine.

When he’d first woke—disoriented and nauseous—the world had a film across it, like the rainbow on an oil slick. Everything held fuzzy edges and echoing sounds. Later came the muscle cramps from hell that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

Well, maybe _one_ enemy.

He’d like to see Murdoc deal with the muscle cramps that came with a ketamine hangover. That’d make Jack plenty happy.

Watching MacGyver’s slim figure hoof it out into the quiet expanse of the northern Canada wildness to build a lifeline to home without Jack there to watch his back was the absolute _worst_ result of the ketamine after-effects, hands down. Jack set his watch to their agreed two-hour window as Mac got smaller in his view until he couldn’t see him clearly any longer.

He went back inside and ate a few bites of the cooling stew—only then realizing that Mac hadn’t eaten any of it before heading out. He stretched muscles sore from cramping. He studied the maps tacked to the wall. He looked at his watch.

Barely thirty minutes had passed.

Forcing himself to relax, he began to clean his rifle, noting indentations in the shoulder rest where the travois had dug into it. He shook his head, marveling at what his partner had gone through to get him to safety. Mac was a strong kid—he’s had to be to survive what he’d been through over the last twenty-six years—but there was strong, and there was _strong_.

The sheer physicality involved in hauling his ass across the wilderness was staggering to Jack.

He finished cleaning his rifle, loading it with the ammo he found in Mac’s TAC vest, drank some more water and waited to make sure all the food and water he’d consumed stayed where it belonged. He was ready to be done with this ketamine bullshit. Closing his eyes, he found himself replaying the too-real memory of the day Whiskey spooked and took off, heading right for the near-invisible barbed wire fence.

He’d been around twelve—old enough to know how to ground tie his horse, young enough to be terrified at the screams he’d heard coming from the animal. He marveled in the memory of his father; the fear and pain echoing out of Whiskey had troubled his dad as much as it had Jack, but the man had been steady, like the surface of a still pond with no clue of the turmoil roiling underneath.

It was the memory of his father’s constant strength that Jack found himself pulling from in Afghanistan, in the CIA, in every mission that ever went sideways—which, let’s face it, was most of them. He drew on that even cadence of his father’s calm voice, steady hand, and compassionate gaze. More often than not, his temper and emotions got the better of him, but there was always that back-beat of stability that brought him through whatever it was in one piece.

Jack hadn’t realized how much time had passed during his musing. When he heard the cough outside the cabin, he assumed it was Mac and stood, opening the door, his rifle in his hand out of habit. The minute he caught site of the figure in white camo coming from the opposite direction, all soft-edged memories of his childhood vanished and he was a Delta Force operative once more, his rifle trained on this new player faster than he’d been able to take his next breath.

“Because my father sent them.”

Mac hadn’t looked good when he’d come into Jack’s periphery and he could feel the kid shaking slightly as close as he was behind him. The casual mention of being shot out of a tree wasn’t doing much for Jack’s blood pressure, either. With one hand, he pushed the younger man further behind him at Gray’s reply, not ready to drop the sight on his rifle until he’d checked the other man for weapons.

“Seems like you got a lot to tell us,” Jack relented. “Why don’t you stand up real slow and dump all your weapons in that snow bank, there?”

“Only got the one weapon left,” Gray replied, standing and doing as Jack asked, pulling a Beretta M9 from his back waistband and dropping it in the snow.

“Knives?”

Gray sighed and pulled two small blades and a Swiss Army knife from his TAC vest.

“How about your boot?” Jack pressed.

Gray shook his head. “None in the boot.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Honest, man, I used it in another tripwire.”

Jack leaned back to where Mac was standing behind him. “Is that possible?”

“From what I saw he did with the ketamine dart, yeah.”

“That was you?” Jack looked back at Gray, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

Gray had the grace to look sheepish. “Yeah, uh…sorry about that. It wasn’t supposed to hit a human. I did make sure you were still breathing, though.”

“You’re a fuckin’ hero, man,” Jack growled. “Get your ass inside.”

Gray moved ahead of them and into the cabin; Jack watched him make a beeline for the woodstove.

“Can you grab those weapons from the snow?” Jack asked as Mac moved away from him.

“Yep,” the younger agent replied, his voice tight and thin as though air was a precious commodity at the moment.

Jack stepped inside and set his rifle down, pulling out his Glock. “C’mon, Cochise,” he said, waving the barrel of his handgun at the CIA Agent. “Strip down until I’m satisfied you’re not hiding some pig sticker somewhere.”

Gray sighed but did as Jack ordered. “Look, I called _you guys_ ,” he started. “I _wanted_ to come in!”

“Mmmhmm,” Jack replied. “So, why is it you’ve had us running all over Denedeh trying to find your ass?”

“Nice memory,” Mac commented, closing the door behind him and moving toward the table.

“Thanks,” Jack grinned, keeping one eye on his partner’s stiff movement and one on the CIA agent between them, currently stripping down to his skivvies. “Guess that ketamine didn’t knock out _all_ my memories,” he growled, glancing the butt of his handgun off Gray’s shoulder.

“Look, I said I was sorry,” Gray returned.

“Oh, that just makes it all better then,” Jack nodded that the man was clear of weapons and allowed him to re-dress.

“Why’d you run?” Mac asked, one shoulder against the wall, his arm wrapped around his waist.

“What?” Gray looked at him, confused, ice flicking off the edges of his beard as he turned.

Mac cleared his throat and Jack narrowed his eyes, studying him.

“You said you made sure Jack was breathing—means you knew he wasn’t Russian,” Mac pointed out, his face impassive, eyes cold. “Why’d you run when you saw me coming?”

Gray swallowed, eyes darting to the side.

“Eh,” Jack tipped the barrel of his Glock up. “Don’t even think about lying to us right now, man. You are walking a very thin line.”

Gray took a slow breath. “I was in the hunting blind because I saw them not two hours before you got hit by the dart.”

“Saw who?” Mac pressed, a groan chasing the edges of his words.

“The FSB—or, actually just the big one,” Gray rubbed his shoulder with a slight wince. “He’s a crafty son of a bitch. Pretty sure his only deterrent up here has been the wolves.”

“His gear have a dark green stripe right about here?” Mac asked, slicing a finger across the top of his shoulder.

Gray nodded.

“So, you ran because…?”

“He was close,” Gray confessed, looking down. “Not more than eighty yards from you. Only thing keeping me alive these last few days was avoiding those bastards.” He waved a hand toward Jack, “I figured he was breathing, you were there, you had a weapon, your odds were better than mine.”

Jack huffed, shaking his head. He knew that survival instinct could override everything else, but the idea that Mac had been left vulnerable to attack and hadn’t even known it when Jack had been out was like acid in his gut.

“I didn’t see anything but wolf tracks,” Mac was saying, eyes narrowed in either suspicion or memory, it was hard for Jack to tell.

Gray lifted a shoulder, lifting his hands palms-forward to the fire. “Like I said…crafty.”

Jack eyed Mac. “You saw this guy, bud? The Russian?”

Mac nodded, his hand shifted against his side. “Pretty sure he’s the one who shot me,” he said in a tight voice.

Jack forced himself to breathe slowly. Turning to Gray, he motioned with the Glock once more. “You want to start talking about why your dad sent a bunch of Russian agents after you?”

“Yeah, but…,” Gray eyed the cold pot of leftover stew. “You gonna finish that?”

Jack sighed, exchanging a glance with Mac, then tucked the Glock into his waistband and waved his hand at Gray. “Have at it. Don’t suppose you’re going to stab us with a spoon, are you?”

But Gray was already tucking into the cold stew like he hadn’t eaten in days. Which, Jack allowed, it was entirely possible he hadn’t. Ignoring the rogue CIA Agent for the moment, Jack stepped up next to where Mac had shed his jacket and was pulling Jack’s too-big sweatshirt over his head. He could see that the kid had field-dressed a flank wound, but it was impossible to tell how bad of a wound in this light.

“What do you need, bud?” Jack asked, lighting the gas lantern so that he could get a better look at Mac’s bandage job.

“I’m good for now,” Mac assured him, though his voice was rough. “I think it’s stopped bleeding. Honestly the worst part was falling out of the tree. Knocked the wind out of me.”

Jack skimmed his eyes over Mac’s pale face, snow-tousled hair, wind-burned cheeks. The kid didn’t look right, but he seemed to be functioning on all eight—or in Mac’s case, twelve—cylinders so far.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Good thing there was about ten feet of snow out there.”

“I saw a bear,” Mac reported suddenly, pressing his field dressing close and tightening the knotted sleeves of his shredded sweatshirt.

“Come again?”

“Skinny, but _big_. Like…it could have smashed me with one swipe,” Mac said, shuddering.

“But it didn’t…?”

Mac shook his head. “A wolf chased it off,” he said, his blue eyes taking on a strange, far-away look. “Same one that watched me haul you into the cabin.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack nodded. “That before or after you were shot out of the tree?”

“After,” Mac replied, wincing unconsciously. “Oh, I reached Matty,” he reported, his eyes finding Jack and clearing again. “We have twenty-four hours to exfil, same place as drop point.”

“Good job, kid,” Jack grinned, dropping his hand on the back of Mac’s neck, pulling his young partner close in a quick hug, then smoothly shifting him to the side near the only chair in the small cabin. “How about you sit down and get some grub and water, yeah?”

Mac nodded, sinking stiffly down into the chair. Jack took the now-empty pot from Gray and opened another can of stew, heating it over the newly-stoked fire.

“So, _Isaac_ ,” Jack said, drawing out the other man’s name as he pointed to the floor next to the table and nodded that Gray should sit. “Tell me about this Russian papa of yours.”

Isaac Gray sat, drawing his knees up and resting his forearms against them. In Jack’s estimation, the man was maybe four or five years younger than Jack, built close to the same as well, so they’d be pretty evenly matched in a true brawl. His dark hair hadn’t yet begun to grey at the temples and was longer and shaggier than the typical CIA field agent—which furthered the argument that he’d been on the run or in hiding for an extended period of time. His beard had grown in thick enough that ice had formed on the hairs framing his mouth, melting now that he was warming up.

His eyes, though, caught Jack a bit. They were Mac’s eyes—bright blue, intelligent and inquisitive. Except they lacked the guileless quality that Mac’s held, the look that made Jack want to wrap the younger agent in bubble wrap and keep him safe in a locked room.

“Okay, but…you have me at a bit of a disadvantage,” the CIA Agent countered.

“How’s that?”

“You know my name—you were sent here for me,” he shrugged. “But I don’t know yours.”

“Jack Dalton, Delta, former CIA, all around bad ass,” Jack said, jerking a thumb at his own chest. “This guy is Angus MacGyver, but you can call him Mac. He’s basically the smartest man in any room, so…best not to mess with him.”

“Jack,” Mac protested, shaking his head.

“Jack, Ang—“

“ _Mac_ ,” Jack interrupted.

“Mac…good to meet you both,” Gray nodded at each before continuing. “My name is Isaac Gray—but you already knew that. Well, actually, it’s _not_ my name…which is kind of the point of this whole story, but it’s the only name I’m giving you. I was a medic with the 86 th. Finished my first tour and joined the CIA. I’ve been a CIA Agent for ten years. And I’m pretty sure I made a big-assed mistake.”

Jack crossed his arms, easing back, his eyes squinted at the other man. “I’m listening.”

“First, I need you to know I didn’t know who my father was until about two months ago,” Gray began.

Jack moved around the cabin, serving up stew and water for Mac and watching to make sure the younger agent actually ate and drank—which he did, grudgingly.

“My whole life I’d thought I was raised by a single mother who hailed from the Bronx.”

Jack and Mac remained quiet, letting the man tell his story.

“Got assigned to a case—infiltrate the FSB and assess the level of intelligence they had in other countries,” Gray began to rub a thumb against his opposite palm, a tell if Jack ever saw one. It wasn’t easy to forget the training that the CIA drilled into him—much more stringent than anything the Phoenix offered. The man was showing all signs of telling a difficult truth. “I was good, kept my head down, my accent one of a guy from Dagestan. One day, I sent back a name through my handler. Guy named Sasha Petrov. And I get a flag to meet. They ran the name and it’s a fake. Guy’s real name is Vasiliev. Zachary Vasiliev.”

Gray looked up at them, his eyes carrying a sort of haunting sadness that made Jack’s heart twist.

“And according to governmental archives, that was the name listed in official records as my father.”

Jack drew his head back. “And the CIA didn’t turn that up in any of their background checks?”

Gray shook his head. “Turns out my mom was good at covering her tracks. She was afraid of him—for good reason. She moved, changed our names, lost her accent completely. She made sure I had no idea—that _he_ had no idea.”

“So, why does he want you dead?” Mac asked, leaning heavily against the table. “What did you find out?”

“It wasn’t just one thing,” Gray sighed, pressing the heels of his hands against his forehead. “It was…all the little things—every little piece of information I was able to get out that weakened their international operation. The locations of their hacker nests where they infiltrated secure systems using bots. The sleeper agents they had positioned in other countries. I was able to gather the intel and get it out…always to the same person. My handler. Anton Wilkes.”

“Wait a second,” Jack sat forward. “I know that guy—he was coming up when I was there. Little guy from Chicago. Totally intense, yeah? Kind of…kind of crazy eyes?” He waved his fingers around his face.

Gray nodded. “That’s him.” He sighed. “My biggest problem was that I didn’t branch out. Always did have trouble trusting the wrong people.”

“Wilkes sold you out,” Mac guessed.

Gray nodded. “Somehow Petrov—er, sorry…Vasiliev—found out what I was…and when they grabbed me and brought me in, he found out _who_ I was, too. It wasn’t hard to tell—I look exactly him.”

Jack nodded slowly. “But…wait, the reason the CIA wants you so bad…it isn’t about Vasiliev, is it?”

Gray shook his head. “It’s Wilkes.”

“How’d you get away?” Mac wanted to know.

“When they were transporting me to a secure facility, I…uh…took out my guards. I jumped on a fishing troller to Canada and was going to work my way south when I picked up on my FSB tail. There used to be five of them after me.” He gestured to his cold weather gear. “Now there’s four.”

“With orders to take you out so they don’t lose their operative in the CIA,” Jack nodded. “Makes sense now.”

“No offense, but…I can’t believe the CIA only sent you two,” Gray shook his head.

Jack grinned, the light of it missing his eyes entirely. “Hate to break it to you, pal, but…the CIA didn’t send us. We’re from the Phoenix Foundation.”

Gray frowned. “The think tank?”

“Yeah, where we think deep thoughts about how to save lives,” Mac grumbled, his voice slightly hoarse. He smacked Jack’s arm with the back of his hand. “This is why they were so ready to cash in Matty’s favor.”

“And why we had to move in under radio silence,” Jack nodded. “How long until exfil?”

Mac shook his head, “Like…twenty-two hours. At least.”

Jack took a breath. “So. We tuck in here, fortify the hell out of this place, and wait until tomorrow.”

“Wait…fortify?” Gray frowned in confusion.

“You miss the part where one of your FSB buddies shot my partner?” Jack gestured with the flat of his hand toward Mac. “No way they didn’t see where he was headed.”

“Oh, shit,” Mac exclaimed, sitting forward. “Isaac, where’s your phone?”

Gray’s frown deepened. He pulled it from the pocket of his cargo pants.

“Turn it off. Now.” Mac barked. He looked over at Jack. “Riley was able to pinpoint his location. If she can—“

“They can,” Jack sighed. “Okay, people, look alive.” He stood up and clapped his hands together. “What have we got to fight off these bastards until we can get home?”

Jack placed his rifle and Glock on the table, along with the extra ammo he still had stashed in his TAC vest. With a hesitant look between the other two, Isaac Gray stood up and gathered his Beretta and knives from the pile Mac had dropped them in on the cot, adding them to the table. Mac set his Swiss Army knife down.

“What, that’s it?” Gray asked, surprised.

“I don’t like guns,” Mac shrugged. “But…I think I can help.”

He turned away from the other two and crouched down next to the pile of supplies he’d emptied from his pack when he’d left earlier. Jack noticed Gray staring at Mac’s back with a look of complete puzzlement. He bumped the CIA Agent’s arm with his elbow.

“I’ve learned not to ask.”

As they watched, Mac pried open one of the remaining flares for their gun—leaving one final canister behind—and dumped the powdered contents on top of the towel he’d used the previous night to alleviate Jack’s muscle cramps. After that, Jack lost track of what the kid was doing, he just watched Mac move. There was a certainty to his motion that spoke of assurance and confidence.

Mac knew the science, he knew the math, but what he didn’t know were his limitations. Jack frowned as Mac paused, putting his hand against his side and taking a slow breath, but then moved on. Jack noticed Gray echoing his frown as he studied the young genius—something in his expression adding to Jack’s worry.

“C’mon, we can’t let the kid do all the work,” Jack muttered, gathering up his rifle and Glock.

While Mac turned the small table and paltry provisions into his own private science lab, Jack and Gray set weapons at the small window and the door, balancing out the ammo between each. Jack left Mac his Swiss Army knife but took one of Gray’s knives.

“So…finding out your dad was a Russian spy…not exactly the easiest pill to swallow I’d imagine,” Jack said, peering out through the window at the blinding white vista.

Gray shoved more logs into the stove, stoking the fire. “Yeah, it’s just what every kid asks Santa for, y’know?”

“What’d he say when they brought you to him?”

“You mean, did I have my Luke Skywalker moment?” Gray asked, a smirk plain in his voice.

Jack grinned. He was beginning to like this guy in spite of himself. “Okay, sure. You still got two hands, so it must not have gone that bad.”

“He beat me unconscious and I woke up in the gulag waiting to be transported to their _secure location_ ,” Gray replied, undisguised pain slipping around the words. “Which I took to be Russian for _place where we kill you and no one finds out_.”

“Damn, dude,” Jack muttered. “Think I’d rather lose a hand.”

“Well, I’m still here, so….”

“Okay,” Mac said suddenly, drawing their attention. He stood up and Jack felt his heart drop to his toes as the kid’s face immediately paled and he grabbed the table for balance. Before Jack could jump protectively to his side, however, Mac steadied himself and plowed forward. “These two are basically like old school grenades…but with a fuse, so don’t forget to light them before you throw them,” he pointed to what looked like wadded up tin foil balls.

Jack could see printing on the outside: _Menu 22, Asian Beef Strips._  The kid had used their empty MRE packets.

“These are more…um…potent,” Mac cleared his throat, then continued. “More like a light it and run, kind of thing. When that outer layer burns off… _boom_.”

Jack eyed the little boxes of death Mac was pointing at with trepidation.

“Who _are_ you, man?” Gray asked, his voice hushed with part awe, part fear.

“ _He’s_ the think tank,” Jack replied, grinning proudly at Mac.

He looked outside once more, frowning as he saw clouds gathering in the west, blocking out the colors of the setting sun.

“Anyone read a weather report lately?” Jack asked over his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me,” Mac sighed. Jack heard the chair behind him creak as he sat down. “Another storm?”

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Jack replied, glancing over his shoulder. “Although, it could work in our favor.”

“True,” Mac nodded, rubbing his fingers against his temple.

Jack caught Gray staring at Mac with something that looked close to concern; he stepped away from Gray and stood in front of his young friend, staring down at him. “Why don’t you take the cot, bud? You haven’t slept in a few days.”

“Not true,” Mac protested, squinting up at Jack as though his eyeballs were burning. “I slept a few hours last night.”

“Yeah, sitting up and taking care of me,” Jack countered. “We’ll wake you up when the fun starts.”

Mac pressed a hand to his side; Jack couldn’t see any blood through the bandage he’d placed there, so he didn’t say anything. Especially since they didn’t really have anything handy to stitch up a wound.

“Yeah, okay,” Mac relented, pushing himself slowly to his feet and shuffling over to the cot.

He eased himself down and Jack heard his quiet groan as he lay back on the canvass. He could only imagine how sore his young friend had to be after falling from the tree—no matter how deep the snow was he landed in. He covered Mac’s slim frame with the woolen Army blanket then stoked the fire again, making sure the cabin was plenty warm.

“Hey, Isaac?” Mac’s low voice summoned, his eyes still closed.

“Yeah?” Gray replied, standing at his perch at the window

“Eat something,” Mac ordered, shifting uncomfortably on the cot. “I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

Jack looked over at Gray, surprised, and saw the sheepish blush spread across the agent’s face.

“C’mon, man.” He said, leading him away from the window. “We got beef stew and MREs. Everything a growing CIA Agent needs.”

Gray nodded, grateful, and Jack switched places with him, one eye out through the window, the other on Mac. He could tell when the kid finally succumbed to exhaustion, the lines of tension that had started to be such a regular occurrence with his partner eased, his face going slack and young.

There was something going on there, Jack knew. An undercurrent of pain and sadness that slipped around Mac’s words. His movements—no less sure than before—were shaded with an unnamed shadow.

It was in the way he’d fought to save Jack, the way he’d comforted the older man in the throes of ketamine hallucinations, the way he slept even now. Jack didn’t know how to get to the source of this pain, but he was determined to figure it out.

Mac was made of sharp edges, as though he was simply waiting for everything to shatter around him. Jack wasn’t going to be the trigger that brought about his friend’s emotional destruction, but he also wasn’t going to let Mac implode if he was able to diffuse that particular bomb.

Frowning, Jack turned back to the window, watching as the clouds gathered, the sky darkened, the wind picked up and screamed through the tree tops and around the small cabin.

“You want some?” Gray spoke up behind him.

Jack glanced over and saw the pot of stew held out to him like an olive branch. “Yeah, okay,” he muttered, taking it from the other man. “Wish I could get some into him,” he nodded toward Mac, frowning at the sheen of sweat he could see on the younger man’s forehead. “He’s too damn skinny.”

“Seems capable enough,” Gray commented.

The hair on the back of Jack’s neck stood on end. “What do you mean by that?”

Gray nodded toward the make-shift bombs on the table. “He made four explosives out of MRE wrappers and…chapstick, for all I know.” Jack nodded, pacified. “Not to mention he gets shot out of a tree and still managed to make his way back. Kid’s tough.”

“That he is,” Jack agreed, looking out the through the window once more and frowning when he realized he was at zero visibility. He slumped back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor as he ate the rest of the stew. “Still a kid, though.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how’d you guys find each other?” Gray asked sank down in the chair next to the table full of bombs.

“Afghanistan,” Jack replied. “He was the EOD assigned to our unit. I was overwatch.”

Gray nodded. “Okay, these bombs make a little more sense, now.”

“He was nineteen freaking years old,” Jack remembered, shaking his head. “Diffusing bombs all over Kabul and back. I was supposed to be on my last mission of my last tour.” He shrugged. “I re-upped. Couldn’t let him get shot while trying to save people from getting blown up, now, could I?”

“How long ago was that?” Gray asked.

Jack narrowed his eyes in thought, adding up the time. “’bout seven years now.”

Gray did the thing with his hand; Jack tilted his head to listen more closely. “When I was his age,” Gray nodded toward where Mac lay, a line of pain bisecting his brows, “I was just joining up after wasting four years in college and four years after thinking I was going to be an investment banker.”

Jack huffed. “How’d you go from investment banker to medic?”

“When I was twenty-five, my best buddy and I got into a car accident,” he confessed, eyes resting on Mac. “Bad one. My buddy…only reason I’m alive today is because he kept his fingers against my femoral artery until they cut me free.” Gray looked down. “And after all that, he didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Jack replied, genuinely.

“Yeah, I am, too,” Gray quietly replied.

Quiet stretched between them for what felt like hours. Jack set the now-empty pot aside, staring partly at the fire in the cook stove, partly at Mac’s now restless form on the cot. Gray settled against the table, head pillowed on his arms. Jack lost track of time, stoking the fire when it burned to glowing coals, keeping an eye on Mac, listening to the storm.

At one point, Mac groaned, shifting uncomfortably on the cot. Jack didn’t like the look of him—too pale, cheeks bright pink with wind burn, sweating. He should check the kid’s bandage.

As he shifted to his knees, something hit the front door, hard. The sound reverberated through the cabin, causing all three inhabitants to startle. Mac sat up from a dead sleep, his hand pressed against his wounded side.

“What the hell?” Jack muttered, moving toward the door.

“Wait,” Mac rasped, one hand out. “Don’t open it.”

Jack halted, waiting as Mac threw the blanket back, struggled off the cot and then moved toward the window. Jack could see his thin frame shaking, blood now making an appearance on his bandage.

“It’s a white-out, man,” Jack told him. “Storms kicked up somethin’ fierce.”

“There are two,” Mac replied, his voice drawing Gray close, peering out through the window behind Mac.

“Yeah, I can see two shadows.”

“Shadows from _what_? There’s no light out there,” Jack fired back.

“They’ve got head gear on,” Mac replied. “LED lights, I think. Trying to navigate through the storm.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jack growled, grabbing his rifle. “You see ‘em, kid?”

“Affirmative,” Mac replied as Jack readied the rifle. “You’re only going to get one shot, Jack.”

“I only need one,” Jack replied, grimly. “They lining up to hit the door again?”

“Yes.”

“Gray,” Jack barked, his voice low and tight. “Get on one of Mac’s fuse bomb things and get your ass over here. When I saw _now_ , I want you to open the door and throw it out there.”

“But—“

“Just do it!” Mac and Jack ordered in unison.

Gray nodded, standing to Jack’s side, one hand on the door handle, the other gripping the make-shift grenade.

“Isaac,” Mac called. Both Jack and Gray turned to look at him and Gray plucked the lighter Mac tossed him out of the air. “You’ll need that.”

“Ready?” Jack asked.

Mac nodded, looking out the window once more. “They’re moving into position.”

“Light the fuse, big guy,” Jack ordered, thankful that Gray obeyed.

“Easy,” Mac murmured. “Easy…okay, _now_!”

“Now!” Jack echoed, nodding at Gray.

The CIA Agent opened the door, pausing for two seconds as Jack fired—hitting both men on the other side with one bullet—and then threw the grenade. The ensuing explosion sent snow everywhere, the FSB Agents on the other side of the door collapsing in either direction as the fallout buried them. Gray slammed the door shut.

“Yeah, baby!” Jack whooped. “You mess with the bull, you get the horns!”

“There’s still two more out there, Jack,” Mac reminded him.

“Yeah, but there’s also two _less_ out there,” Jack countered.

Mac offered him a tired smile and Jack frowned as he saw the kid practically clinging to the window sill. Gray seemed to see the same thing and kicked the chair from one side of the table to the other so that Mac could sink into it.

“I don’t get it,” Gray said, as though to cover the gesture. “You don’t like guns, but you just helped us take out two bad guys with your…Pinterest bomb.”

“Dude.” Jack pulled his head back in surprise. “You know what _Pinterest_ is?”

“I’m a soldier,” Mac replied, a bit of a waver in his voice from exhaustion. “An EOD tech, actually. I know there are people who will do anything to kill someone else and sometimes the only way to save one life is to take another. I just…don’t like the unfair advantage a gun gives the other guy.”

“Uh-huh,” Gray replied, wiping a hand down his face and tugging thoughtfully on his beard. “So you’re saying you’d never use a gun? Even if it was the only thing that could save your life?”

“There’s always another way,” Mac argued.

“What about _Jack’s_ life?” Gray pressed.

Jack frowned, not liking how Gray was pressuring his friend. Liking even less how Mac was somewhat sinking into the back of the chair he sat on. “Hey, now.”

“There’s always another way,” Mac repeated, tiredly.

“Okay, Think Tank,” Gray replied. “I trust you.”

“Where do you think the other two are?” Jack asked, trying to divert Gray’s attention from Mac. “What are their patterns?”

“They don’t really follow one,” Gray informed him. “And because they’re all dressed the same, the only reason I know there are four are from the badges on their uniforms that indicate rank. I’ve never seen their faces.”

“Swell,” Jack muttered, checking the chamber of his rifle as he sank down to sit on the floor near the door. “Anyone else feeling a bit like we’re boxed in?”

The others in the room were silent, listening as the wind raged outside, rattling at the chimney, whistling through the cracks of the window. Waiting. Thinking. Time passed in the silence of the cabin, stretching out like someone had tipped their hourglass, slowing the spill of sand.

When Jack moved to stoke the fire, Mac’s low voice drew his attention. “Jack.” He looked over as his young partner pushed to his feet. “We need to— “

Mac wavered suddenly, the color draining from his face as if someone had just brushed his skin with white paint. Jack felt his heart plummet and he turned away from the stove, his eyes on Mac.

“Jack…?” This time it was more of a plea; Mac swayed, reaching for the wall.

“Whoa,” Jack muttered as he stepped toward the younger man just as Mac’s knees gave out, catching Mac’s slim form against him and lowering him carefully to the floor. He could feel heat through Mac’s shirt. “Hey. Hey, kid.”

Mac grabbed hold of Jack’s arms as though he were trying to anchor himself. His breath staggered in rough gasps, his body shaking against Jack’s hold.

“What’s going on, bud?” Jack kept one arm around Mac’s shoulders, the other pushing his bangs from his forehead, wincing at the heat he felt there. “Talk to me.”

Mac lifted his eyes to Jack, his unguarded expression sucking the breath from Jack’s lungs.

_Damn, kid_.

The walls that were so much a part of his partner—the thoughtful looks, the quick thinking, the way he patiently walked through answers he instinctively knew no one would understand. Jack was used to that. He was used to being on the other side of Mac’s emotions.

Mac letting him in—even if just for a moment, just through _a look_ —rocked him.

“Jack….” Mac’s voice was strangled, uncertain, and then to Jack’s horror, his lashes fluttered, and his eyes closed, the tension in his body releasing as he sagged in Jack’s arms.

“Whoa, whoa, hey…hey, now,” Jack fumbled for Mac’s neck, pressing his fingers there and only exhaling once he found the kid’s pulse. “Isaac,” he looked over his shoulder resorting to the man’s first name in his worry. “Help me get him on the cot.”

Gray was there immediately, gathering up Mac’s other side and lifting him with Jack, Mac’s head sagging back limply over their arms. They lay him on the cot and Jack immediately lifted the too-big sweatshirt, trying to get to the bandaged wound.

“Jesus, he’s burning up,” Jack muttered as he came in contact with the bruised skin on Mac’s chest.

“He’s been running a fever for hours,” Gray informed him. “I noticed it when you let me inside.”

Jack struggled with the knotted sweatshirt sleeves holding Mac’s field dressing together. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?”

“Wasn’t sure you two didn’t already know,” Gray replied. “Plus, like I said, he was functioning just fine.”

“Right up until he passed out on us,” Jack snapped, finally pulling the make-shift bandage free.

The material had stuck to Mac’s skin with blood and Jack winced as he pulled it free, watching the blood begin to sluggishly seep from the near-perfect hole in Mac’s side. Gray moved to the head of the cot and carefully, expertly pulled Jack’s sweatshirt off of Mac’s body, followed by the long-sleeved shirt he’d been wearing over the bandage. Mac’s bare skin immediately rippled with goosebumps, reacting to the cooler air of the room.

“What the hell happened to him?” Gray demanded, eyeing the bruised side.

“He fell down a hill and crashed into a boulder thanks to your dad’s goons,” Jack replied. “And…,” he realized, dragging a hand down his face, “then he got shot out of a goddamned tree.”

“Shit,” Gray muttered, straightening up.

“If he was running a fever when we found you, it wasn’t from this wound,” Jack assessed, eyes skimming over Mac’s flushed face. The kid was breathing rapidly, his face knotted in a frown of pain. “But it’s sure not helping matters any.”

“We need to get it cleaned out, get him cooled down,” Gray declared. “No idea what his temp is, but I can feel the heat from here and unconsciousness does not bode well.”

“Alright, Mr. Medic,” Jack practically growled, hating the fact that Mac’s slim, muscular frame was visibly trembling. “What do you suggest, huh? Got anything to stitch him up?”

Gray frowned, then picked up Mac’s shirt, spreading it flat on the floor and piecing the torn section from where the crossbow bolt hit it. Grabbing the bloody scraps of sweatshirt Mac had turned into a bandage, he did the same thing, assembling the torso of the shirt like a jigsaw puzzle. Standing, he cast around the small room.

“Where’s his coat?”

“What in the _hell_ are you doing?” Jack demanded.

“Just…trust me a second,” Gray demanded. “His coat?”

Jack jerked his thumb over to the slowly dwindling pile of firewood. Gray picked up the coat and spread it flat, then sat back on his heels with a curse.

“What is it?”

Gray lifted Mac’s coat, his finger through the hole on the lower right. “It didn’t tear the first layer,” he explained. “It punched right through and that piece of cloth is inside the wound.”

“So, it doesn’t matter if we can stop the bleeding or stitch him up,” Jack concluded, reaching up to push Mac’s hair from his face, wincing at the heat he could feel there. “We don’t get that out of the wound….”

“It’ll kill him.”

A rough shout sounded on the other side of the cabin door.

“Мы знаем, что вы там!”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Jack muttered. “These guys have the shittiest timing.”

Mac groaned, shivering. He shifted weakly on the cot but didn’t wake.

“What’re they saying, man?”

Gray buried his face in his hands. “They know I’m in here.”

“Отправляй предателя, и мы оставим тебя в живых!”

“Basically, if you send me out, they won’t kill you,” Gray translated.

“Yeah, I believe that about as far as I could throw you,” Jack scoffed. “Okay, look. It’s one voice—can you see if both of them are out there?”

Gray moved to the window as Mac shifted again, this time muttering something Jack couldn’t quite catch. Jack stood up and grabbed the sweatshirt bandage again, covering Mac’s wound, then draped the blanket over his bare chest. He knew they needed to cool him down, but until they could get rid of Crazy Ivan and his pal, Jack couldn’t handle seeing Mac looking so helpless and vulnerable.

“I only see one light,” Gray replied. “Doesn’t mean the other one isn’t out there, though.”

“And it doesn’t mean he is. Mac’s always saying to look at the situation for what it is, not what you think it might be,” Jack said. “Right now, we got us one FSB Agent who’s probably half frozen, and a wounded soldier who needs our help. I say we take out Ivan same as his pals and focus on getting Mac ready for that exfil. _Capiche_?”

Gray nodded, having straightened to his full height during Jack’s speech. “If we have a shot at saving Mac, we’re going to need snow,” Gray said. “And lots of it.”

Jack nodded. The voice outside shouted something else and he glanced at Gray curiously.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gray waved his hand. “More of the same.”

“Harry….” Mac’s voice was thin, raspy.

Jack turned quickly to see Mac shift restlessly beneath the blanket, his eyes squeezed shut, his brow knitted with pain.

“Who’s Harry?” Gray asked, grabbing up the pots from the shelves and setting them with Mac’s coat on the table next to the remaining three bombs.

“His granddad,” Jack said quietly, resting his hand on the top of Mac’s head before straightening and grabbing his coat. “Here’s how it’s going to go. You get one of those ‘light it and run’ bombs—nah, no, not the one with the fuse. Yeah, there you go. Ivan’s probably seen the bodies of his friends and is going to be waiting to pluck us off as soon as we open the door.”

“Exactly what I’m afraid of,” Gray muttered.

“So, we open the door, dive to either side. I fire at him and you throw the bomb.”

“How come _I_ have to throw the ‘light it and run’ bomb?”

Jack arched an eyebrow, chambering a round in his rifle. “’cause I’m the better shot.”

“You’ve never seen me shoot,” Gray mumbled, but grabbed the lighter and took position next to the door.

“Listen, soon as we take out your friend, we focus on Mac, agreed?”

“Roger that,” Gray nodded.

On a silent three-count, Jack opened the door and dove. A bullet tugged at the shoulder of his coat and he landed in a snow bank, face-first, coming up with the barrel of his rifle first. The wind drove the flurry of snow around, whiting out his vision and stinging his eyes. He could barely see the barrel of his rifle; no way was he sighting on anything without risking hitting Gray.

A flurry of furious shouts—all in Russian—hit his ears and he realized that Gray had probably assessed the same thing about the bomb and decided to improvise. Near as Jack could tell, the CIA Agent had confronted and then charged the third Russian. Jack shifted to his knees, bracing the barrel of his rifle, trying to line up a shot. His fingers were stiffening with cold, both the barrel and trigger of the rifle turning icy.

He could hear more than he could see—the voices were further away than he first thought.

Moving to a crouch, Jack shuffled forward in the thigh-deep snow toward where he could hear Gray shouting in Russian; after a moment Jack realized the third man had used the bodies of the first two as a sort of protective wall—and that Gray was currently trading blows with the third man on the other side of that wall.

“Gray!” Jack shouted, rifle up.

The wind stole his voice.

He moved slightly closer, trying to see through the darkness and the snow, only able to pick up grunts, curses, and the sound of fists making impact. Before he could reposition, he saw the flicker of flame in the flurry of snow, heard an _ooff_ as air was shoved from a body, and then Gray was running toward him, shouting his name.

Jack didn’t need to be able to see to pick up on the panic in Gray’s tone. He managed to run a few feet before Gray tackled him, pressing him deep into the snow—face-first—as Jack felt the world around him shake with the concussive force of an explosion. Snow felt down in heavy clumps around and on top of him. When his chest constricted enough that he was desperate for breath, Jack pressed up, shoving Gray’s protective arm off of him.

Pushing himself out of the hole in the snow their bodies had made, he looked around, then down at Gray, who was shaking his head roughly as though trying to alleviate the ringing in his ears.

“What. The hell. Was that?” Jack shouted.

“Your boy’s Pinterest bomb,” Gray shouted back. He glanced over his shoulder. “Inside the coat of a Russian spy.”

Jack swallowed, then looked back around him. It was too dark to see, but something told him that he really didn’t want to. He nodded, using his rifle as leverage to push himself to his feet.

“I’m going to choose to believe that the fourth guy is going to wait out the storm,” he shouted.

“I’m good with that,” Gray replied, following Jack to the cabin.

When they got inside, Jack grimaced at the red he could see smeared on the back of Gray’s coat and along the side of his face. He rubbed at his own face but felt nothing but cold. They’d left the door open in their haste to take out the FSB Agent and Mac was shivering beneath the woolen Army blanket. Gray stripped out of his gore-covered coat and moved to stoke the fire as Jack grabbed a canteen and tried to get some water into Mac.

“Goddammit,” Jack muttered. “He’s burning up, man. We gotta do something.”

“Harry,” Mac mumbled, his arm slipping free of the blanket, reaching up to clasp Jack’s coat, his eyes blinking open, unfocused. “Harry…. Jack’s in trouble, Harry.”

Jack frowned, wrapping his cold fingers around Mac’s trembling hand. “Hey, I’m right here, kid.”

“He’s in trouble,” Mac repeated, eyes bloodshot and frantic. “Can’t get out…he can’t get out, Harry.”

Jack eased Mac’s sweaty hair away from his face. “It’s okay, Mac. I’m right here, man.”

Mac closed his eyes, turning his face toward the coolness of Jack’s palm, muttering, “Gotta get him outta there…gotta get him out.”

“Any idea what he’s talking about?”

Jack just shook his head. “Tell me what to do.”

“Give me your coat,” Gray ordered. Jack did so without question. “Get that blanket off of him—I know it’s still cold in here, but we don’t want to trap him in that heat.”

Jack nodded and did as Gray asked, pulling the chair over so that he sat next to Mac’s head, rather than at the foot of the cot. As he continued to try to sooth Mac’s restless muttering, Gray went out into the storm and in minutes was back in with snow packed in the pots and Jack’s coat. Putting one on the top of the stove to melt, he handed Jack the other one and began to scoop the snow from Jack’s coat to pack around Mac’s torso. Jack followed suit around Mac’s neck and shoulders.

Mac gasped as the cold hit his fevered skin, his eyes opening wide once more. The glazed disconnection Jack saw in their expression hit him in the gut. Mac’s hands flailed as though he were falling; he managed to catch hold of the edge of the cot and grip tight.

“I lost it,” Mac said, his voice ragged and young. “I lost it, Harry.”

“It’s okay, Mac,” Jack assured him. “We’ll find it.”

Mac shook his head. “’s gone….”

Jack swallowed, wanting to do more, hating the helplessness that gnawed at his gut. He took the snow-packed towel that Gray handed him and stroked it carefully over Mac’s face. At the touch, Mac groaned, a tortured, desperate sound that made the back of Jack’s eyes burn.

“Can’t get Jack free without it, Harry,” he muttered, his eyes rolling closed. “What am I gonna do?”

“Oh, son of a bitch,” Jack murmured. “I know this.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I know this.”

“Okay, Jack,” Gray put a hand on his shoulder. “I need you to focus, okay? I went through the rest of our supplies. We got shit for pain relief, no antibiotics, and the only thing we can use to keep the wound closed are two safety pins that he had fastened to the inside of his coat for some random reason.”

“Dude, we are not _safety pinning_ his skin together,” Jack growled.

Gray shook his head, looking down at where Mac gripped the edge of the cot. “That’s the least of our worries.” He tugged on his beard. “First, we gotta clean it out.” He took a breath and picked up a small travel bottle of Listerine.

“You’re going to clean out a wound…,” Jack narrowed his eyes, “with fucking _mouthwash_?”

“Look, it contains ethanol, which kills bacteria and germs, and it’s literally our only option,” Gray snapped. They both flinched when Mac started at his tone, groaning at the motion. Gray pitched his voice lower. “Then we cover it in honey— “

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Jack muttered, rubbing his face.

“People have been using honey since the middle ages—it’ll seal it and draw fluid out. At least until we can get him to the exfil.”

Jack wiped Mac’s face with the snow-packed towel—which was melting with the heat of his fever—and scowled. “Fine. Let’s just get this done.”

Gray made Jack rinse his hands with some of the heated water, then put the rest in a mug and spooned some honey into it for later. Next, they shifted the cot so that it was away from the wall and positioned themselves on either side of MacGyver. Gray had set the lantern on the table, pulling it close so that they could see Mac’s wound clearly.

“Harry,” Mac rasped, swallowing dryly and shifting on the cot with a groan. “I gotta find it. Jack’s in trouble, Harry.”

“Easy, kiddo,” Jack soothed, holding the back of Mac’s sweaty head, and tipping the opening of the canteen against his lips. “You find it, don’t worry. You get me out.”

Mac’s trembling hands shot up to Jack’s sleeve, his fingers curling into the material almost desperately. Jack set the canteen aside and met his friend’s fever-bright gaze, Mac’s blue eyes practically glowing in the shadowed interior of the cabin. Mac’s breath was raspy, escaping in rapid bursts through is parted lips.

“Jack….”

“I’m right here, bud,” Jack said softly, smiling at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jack’s…in trouble,” Mac told him, his voice so desperate Jack felt his heart crack. “I gotta get him out.”

“You will, kid,” Jack nodded, his brows pulled together. “You won’t let him down.”

Mac swallowed and blinked, grimacing slightly as he looked away from Jack. Gray bent over the wound, using some of the melted snow to clean away the blood. The cot was a mess with melted snow and blood, but as long as it held Mac up until they got out of there, Jack wasn’t going to complain.

“Okay, I’m going to do this in three steps,” Gray said, his voice leveling out reassuringly. “Clean it, remove the debris, clean it again. And none of it’s going to be easy. Or feel good.”

“Mac, hey…hey, bud, you with me?” Jack stroked MacGyver’s sweaty face, drawing his attention. “You with me, kid?”

Mac swallowed. “You gonna help me?”

“Yeah, I…uh…,” Jack forced a smile he didn’t feel, “I’m gonna help you get Jack, okay? You trust me?”

Mac nodded and the faith Jack saw bubbling up through the fever-clouded gaze made his eyes burn once more.

“Okay, it’s gonna hurt a bit though,” Jack pulled Mac’s hand away from his sleeve and held it tightly, thumb-to-thumb. “But I’m not gonna leave you. I promise you, man. I’m right here.”

“’kay,” Mac replied, his eyes rolling closed.

“You ready?” Gray asked quietly. Jack nodded that he was as he watched Gray pour Listerine over the open wound.

He was wrong.

He’d been prepared for Mac to grip his hand tightly, to arch up, maybe even to curse. He had _not_ been prepared for Mac’s reflexive, ragged scream of pain. It tore from his young partner as though it were being ripped from him, clawing its way to the surface and wrecking Mac’s voice along the way.

“Stop…,” Mac sobbed, tears slipping from behind his tightly closed eyelids and sliding down the sides of his face to bury themselves in his hair.

“Isaac!” Jack snapped. “Get on with it!”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Gray using the small scissor attachment from a Swiss Army knife—either Mac’s or his own, Jack wasn’t sure—to gently search for the piece of cloth that had speared itself into the wound.

Mac’s back arched, and he cried out, sobbing helplessly from the pain and fever, his hand gripping Jack’s like a vise.

“ _Fuck_ …,” Mac gasped. “Stop…stop— _ahhh_!”

“Got it,” Gray reported, then without pausing, he poured the remaining Listerine into the wound, both men cringing in reaction to Mac’s scream of pain.

“Jack!” Mac cried. “ _Jack!_ ”

“I’m here, man,” Jack replied, realizing only then that he was openly crying. “I’m here, Mac. I’m right here.”

“Jack…we gotta get outta here, man….” Mac was pulling him forward with the force of his desperation. He groaned, and the sound was so distraught that Jack caught is breath. “ _Please_ , Jack,” Mac begged, his whole body trembling as Gray gently cleaned the blood away from the wound once more with swiftly melting snow.

“We’re gonna get out,” Jack promised, wiping tears from his face with the back of his hand. He looked over and saw Gray pouring honey onto the wound, tensing for the reaction from Mac. When none came, he looked back at his friend and saw the lines around Mac’s eyes had eased, his grip lessening. “Mac?”

“I think he’s out, man,” Gray said, sounding as winded as Jack felt. “I’m just going to wrap this up and we can clean off some of this snow, get him more comfortable.”

Jack nodded, not willing to release Mac’s hand, but lowering it to the edge of the cot. Gray used the unsoiled sections of Mac’s sweatshirt to wrap the honey-sealed wound, tying it expertly to the side of Mac’s bruised ribs. Together, they cleared away the snow and eased Mac forward and back so that he was lying on the dry blanket and not the wet cot.

With Gray’s help, Jack slipped Mac’s long-sleeved shirt on him, then covered him up with a coat to stave off the inevitable chills. Mac didn’t wake once through the whole ordeal. Jack ran his hand through his partner’s sweaty, tangled hair, registering that while his fever was still very much a concern, his skin felt markedly cooler, thanks to the snow.

Standing up on shaking legs, Jack made his way over to the window, gazing out into the vista of still-blowing snow illuminated slightly by a stalwartly rising sun.

“Goddamn,” Jack said quietly, accepting the canteen Gray offered him and taking a long drink, his dry throat greedy for the moisture. “I never want to do that again.”

“What was he talking about?” Gray asked, sitting on the chair Jack had vacated.

“About…a year after we met, we were in Farah,” Jack said, gazing out through the window, but instead of seeing snow, he saw sand. Miles and miles of sand. “We got cut off from our team—I was two buildings away from Mac, on overwatch. The kid found a pressure-plated bomb in the building and refused to leave until he disarmed it.”

“Something happened—something trapped you?”

Jack nodded. “Building I was in got hit. When we realized we’d been cut off from the team, Mac made me wear a sensor—kind of like the ones firefighters wear?” He glanced over at Gray and saw the man was listening as he held Mac’s wrist in between his fingers, taking his pulse. “Only the MacGyver version required a kind of remote to activate it. He didn’t want just anyone to be able to find me. _He_ wanted to be able to find me.”

Rubbing his face, Jack sighed. “I don’t remember much after the RPG hit—not until Mac dug me out. But…he was a mess. Panicked…like I’d never seen him. He’s always so steady, y’know?”

“EODs stake lives on their ability to hold it together,” Gray acknowledged.

“Right,” Jack nodded, then took another drink from the canteen before heading back toward the cot to sink down against the wall, opposite Gray. “Guess from where Mac stood, the explosion looked a bit too much like the one that had taken out his CO just before we met. Kind of flashed him back and he…he didn’t take it so well.”

“So…the thing he was talking about—that he lost? It was the remote?”

“Yeah,” Jack chuckled. “He told me later that the blast knocked him off his feet and it took him almost five minutes to find it—but, you know, where his head was at, it felt like five years.”

Gray nodded. “I can imagine.”

“He dug me out and I was in one piece and our boys came back for us,” Jack smiled. “And everyone lived happily ever after.”

“And Harry?”

“Whassat?” Jack tilted is head.

“What happened to Harry?” Gray asked, nodding toward Mac’s sleeping form. “He kept telling Harry he had to get you out.”

Jack smiled softly. “Harry’s the kid’s granddad. I told you that.”

“Oh,” Gray nodded. “So, he wasn’t there.”

Jack looked over at Mac, thinking. “Harry’s always there, man. In that kid’s ginormous brain, Harry is the one constant.”

They sat quietly, both content just to watch Mac breathe and listen to the storm. About an hour had passed when Jack noticed Mac shift, groaning slightly. He moved forward, resting his hand on top of Mac’s head. After a pause and a few puffs of air like he was trying to physically pull himself toward consciousness, Mac opened his eyes. Jack smiled in relief, finally seeing clarity there.

“Jack?” His voice was a thin echo of its normal timbre.

“Hey, bud.”

Mac blinked at him for a moment, then frowned. “You okay?”

“Well, I’m overdue for a steak dinner and a shower, but I can’t complain,” Jack grinned.

“What…?” Mac shifted slightly, then caught his breath, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly. “Never mind. I remember. Crossbow.”

“It was a little more than that, turns out,” Jack said, not bothering to move his hand where it rested with his fingers tangled in Mac’s hair. “You got yourself a pretty decent fever—and our new buddy, Isaac, had to clean out your wound with, uh…mouthwash and honey.”

Mac frowned at him, then turned his head toward where Gray was sitting. “That’s smart,” he commented. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Are _you_ okay?”

Gray grinned sheepishly, wiping at the dried blood on his face. “Oh, yeah, this isn’t mine,” he said. “We’re down one more FSB Agent.”

Mac’s eyes shifted across Gray, then back to Jack. “What’d you do?”

“Me?” Jack said. “Nothing. Jason Bourne over here took the guy on all by his lonesome and used one of your scary bombs to finish the job.”

Mac grimaced. “Yuck.”

“Pretty much,” Jack nodded, watching as Mac’s eyes began to droop. “Get some sleep, bud.”

“’Kay,” Mac muttered, his hand sliding toward the edge of the cot until he found the hem of Jack’s shirt, curling his fingers in the material as he closed his eyes.

Jack sighed leaning forward against the cot, one hand resting on Mac’s head, the other on his shoulder. Gray echoed Jack’s sigh, leaning forward on his elbows, his forehead resting on the heels of his hands. His whole body screamed of exhaustion; Jack took a moment to appreciate the lengths to which this man—a stranger, not even a fellow soldier in their unit—had gone to help keep them alive.

“You know,” Jack said to Gray, drowsy with spent adrenalin, “it’s going to be hell for you when you get back to the States. FSB thinks you’re a traitor, you’re about to ID _another_ traitor….”

“Yeah,” Gray nodded, rubbing his forehead with the base of one hand. “I’ve thought of that.”

“You got anything good to look forward to? I mean, y’know, aside from doing the right thing and serving your country and all that jazz,” Jack tossed his head a bit.

“I _was_ going to find my mother,” Gray confessed, his voice brittle with such a fragile truth, “tell her I know. I know everything.”

“But…?”

“Not sure how I feel about her, now,” Gray continued, lifting his head, eyes on the middle distance. “That was a…pretty big lie.”

Jack let his eyes slide to regard Mac’s slack features, his partner losing ten years in his sleep. He thought of what the kid’s father had put him through—not just when he was twelve, but every day since. He thought of the light that always seemed to surround Mac, the way he worked life’s problems without a doubt that he’d find his way through, no matter the number of times he’d been left, abandoned, forgotten.

“Y’know, man,” Jack sighed, lifting his hand from Mac’s shoulder, then propping up his head on his fist. “Something else I’ve learned from this kid is that people have an amazing capacity to forgive.” He looked up from Mac to meet Gray’s tired eyes. “It’s pretty much the only thing that helps us get up every time we’re cut down.”

Gray nodded, his expression troubled.

“Get some sleep,” Jack said. “We still got, like, twelve hours until we can head to the exfil.”

“I will,” Gray said. “Just want to keep an eye on him a bit longer.”

“Alright, man.” Jack rested his head on his folded arm, one hand still on Mac’s shoulder.

As far as he was concerned, Isaac Gray could go wherever he wanted. He saved Mac’s life, and that deserved a second chance in Jack’s book.

He slept like the dead—no dreams, no hallucinations, not even the nausea that had been subtly present every time he decided to pause for even a moment. He woke to the feeling of someone tugging on his hand and he grumbled, pushing the hand away, irritated. It wasn’t until he heard the answering hiss of pain that he registered whose hand it was.

“Mac?” Jack brought his head up quickly, wincing at the crick in his neck. Something was wrong. Mac’s face was pale, his blue eyes wide and clear, and his mouth was set in a grim line of worry. “Where’s Gray?”

“Outside,” Mac whispered harshly. “I couldn’t wake you.”

Jack pushed to is feet, feeling his back and knees pop as he uncoiled from his night sleeping like a human pretzel. It took him a moment to register that it was light out—and that the storm had once more passed.

“Jack,” Mac called to him, his voice still at a strained whisper. “Help me up.”

Jack turned to see Mac struggling to sit up, his one leg off the cot. Knowing it wouldn’t do any good to fuss and protest any form of movement after the night the kid had, Jack wrapped an arm around his shoulder and gripped his bicep, easing him upright and holding on until Mac’s breathing eased.

“Why is Gray outside?” Jack asked, keeping his voice low, watching Mac’s face carefully.

“Woke up, heard Russian outside,” Mac managed, gripping the edge of the cot. “Someone cursing, saying names, calling for Isaac’s head.”

“Uh…since when do you speak Russian?”

Mac cast him a sidelong glance. “Since MIT,” he replied. “That doesn’t matter. It was the guy, Jack. The one from the hill.”

“The one who shot you?”

Mac nodded. “I recognized his voice. From when he ran me into the boulder.”

“Still not seeing where Gray being outside ties into this.”

Mac closed his eyes, taking a breath, then opened them and stared at Jack. “He didn’t just have a crossbow. He has an RPG. Or so he claims.”

“What?” Jack choked. “Wait, so Gray turned himself in?”

Mac shook his head. “He’s setting up another trip wire…using one of the bombs.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jack muttered, easing away from Mac when he knew the kid wouldn’t fall over. “How’d he get past the FSB guy?”

Mac shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Where is he now?”

“I _don’t know_ , Jack. I literally _just sat up_ ,” Mac bit off.

“Right,” Jack nodded. “Right, sorry.” He moved to the window, unable to see anything in the front of the cabin, then glanced at his watch. “We’ve got four hours to the exfil.”

“We aren’t going to make it,” Mac predicted grimly.

“Don’t say that, bud,” Jack frowned. “We’ve always made it before.”

“Jack, the exfil’s back at the drop point—which is like a twelve-hour walk, easy, but I can’t…I can’t make that hike. Not like this. Plus there’s the FSB— “

“Don’t worry about the hike. We’ll figure something out. Soon as we get Isaac back,” Jack muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jack,” Mac said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“About what this time?” Jack teased.

“I didn’t know the wound was that bad,” Mac pressed a hand to his side.

Jack raised an eyebrow at him. “You were feeling off when you headed out to hook up that satellite, weren’t you?”

Mac lifted a shoulder by way of an answer.

A shout from outside the cabin caught their attention and both men tensed.

“It’s Isaac,” Mac translated. “He’s saying something about…ah, I can’t hear it.”

“Trying to lure the guy away from the cabin,” Jack guessed, straining to see something through the window. Feeling much too vulnerable, he grabbed his Glock from the table and put it in his waistband, noting that Gray had taken his Beretta and the non-fused bomb. “Think you can stand?”

Mac nodded, using the back of the chair as a support to push to his feet.

“Get back here, behind me,” Jack ordered, feeling an unnamed tension wrap around him, grateful when Mac obeyed without question.

More shouting was heard from outside—Gray again, but it was muffled.

“It’s…he’s not speaking Russian,” Mac said. “I think he’s saying something about it…it didn’t work? _They_ didn’t work? I can’t—”

Then—

“ _JACK!_ ”

Gray’s warning ripped through the quiet morning and Jack’s Glock was in his hand before he registered pulling it. He heard Mac draw in a quick breath and then the cabin door crashed open, splintering from its hinges. Jack didn’t take time to register anything about the man who blasted into their safe harbor except that he carried a hand-held rocket launcher and was bigger and taller than him.

Jack fired twice, one bullet immediately finding its mark in the man’s vest, the other dinging harmlessly off the casing of the RPG and burying itself into the wooden door. Roaring with indignant rage, Jack charged forward, tackling the big Russian backwards out through the cabin door, his Glock falling from his grip to land somewhere in the cabin.

The RPG sank into the snow just outside the cabin door as the Russian fought off Jack’s attack. Jack felt the man’s heavy fists crash against his sides, his back, but he held fast. Then one of those fists crashed against the side of his head and he fell back, dazed.

The FSB Agent pushed back, away from Jack, his motion stirring up the fresh snow until it revealed a frozen pink smear of blood from his comrades buried in the storm. Jack wavered to his knees, spying Gray making his way forward.

“Know what that is, Chief? It’s what’s left of the other three guys who tried to mess with us,” Jack bragged, breathless from the cold. “So, you should just…just…head on back to Mother Russia.”

The big man stood, turning with surprising grace, and before Jack could even think a warning, pulled a Makarov from his vest, and fired at Gray. Jack jerked when he heard the other man cry out in surprise, spinning slightly with the impact of the shot, going to his knees. The big man sited again, but Jack launched himself forward, knocking him back into the snow.

Planting his knees on the man’s chest, Jack began to slam his fists into the Russian’s face, knocking his goggles loose and bloodying his ski mask. But he was wearing down too fast to be effective and felt the other man’s hands reach up and grab him around the throat, rolling him sideways into the snow, shoving his face into the frozen crystals until he was choking on it.

“ _No!_ ”

The growl of denial echoed over Jack’s head and suddenly the pressure was off his neck and he could sit up, coughing and both spitting out and swallowing snow. Gasping, he looked over to see Gray wrestling the big Russian, seeking dominance and losing. Jack fought to get to his knees, but the world was spinning around him, tossing him sideways into the snow. He struggled forward again when he saw the Russian work his Makarov up between his body and Gray’s.

Suddenly a shout shook through all three men.

“ _STOP_!”

Panting, Jack looked over at the cabin—which was a surprising distance away. In his periphery, he saw Gray and the Russian do the same. All of them stared at MacGyver—his long-sleeved shirt hitched up over his bloodied bandage, the discarded RPG on his shoulder.

“Маленький волк,” the big Russian breathed.

“Jack, Isaac, walk toward me,” Mac ordered, his voice steady, strong, and angrier than Jack could recall ever hearing it.

The sight of his young friend holding a rocket launcher was startling enough; Jack wasn’t about to argue any instructions now. He and Gray pushed to their feet and carefully made their way toward the cabin.

“What did Ivan just say?” Jack whispered.

“Little wolf,” Gray said, equally as breathless. He was holding his shoulder, soaked through with blood.

“What the hell does that mean?” Jack asked.

Gray shot him a confused, helpless look, then moved around behind Mac.

“Cолдат,” Mac shouted at the Russian. “Сдаться или умереть.”

Jack caught Gray’s surprised expression and jabbed the other man with his elbow. Gray leaned over, clearly not wanting to distract Mac, and whispered, “He basically told him to surrender or die.”

Jack swallowed. He’d been right—there had definitely been something going on under the surface with his partner, long before this mission, long before he’d been wounded, long before exhaustion and fever took his legs from under him.

If they survived this gig, the two of them were going to have a serious talk.

“Ты не убьешь меня маленьким волком,” the big Russian snarled, an ugly snarl twisting his bloodied lips.

“You won’t kill me, little wolf,” Gray translated.

Mac took a breath and Jack found himself holding his. From where he stood behind and to the left of his partner he could see the waver in Mac’s stance, the tremble in his back and arms.

“Mac,” he said softly. A warning. An out.

“I’m not losing anyone else, Jack,” Mac said quietly. “I _can’t_.”

“There’s always another way,” Jack reminded him, and his heart clenching when Mac swayed, his grip on the rocket launcher wavering.

With a soft whimper that was two heartbeats away from a sob, Mac relented, lowering the weapon, dropping it into the snow. Jack felt himself relax. But then the FSB agent began to laugh. He raised his Makarov toward the cabin door, the barrel aimed at any one of them. Jack took a breath, his mind frozen, unable to think about how to save his partner this time.

Without warning, an explosion sent all four men into an instinctive crouch. Jack whipped his head toward the steep hill, baffled.

“Son of a bitch,” Gray breathed. “It worked!”

“What? What worked?” Jack demanded, casting about in the snow for any weapon that wasn’t a rocket.

“The bomb,” Gray said. Jack and Mac shot him dual looks of shock. “I couldn’t get the casing to light, but…I guess maybe it was just delayed from the snow!”

The FSB Agent began to turn back toward them, mocking laughter punctuating an angry rant that Jack could only guess the meaning of because just then, Mac stiffened, his whole body a lightning rod of tension. He spread his arms wide to back the two men behind him into the cabin.

The low rumble that followed the blast wiped the smile off the Russian’s face.

“Get _back_ ,” Mac snapped when the two men didn’t move fast enough for him.

Then Jack saw the wall of snow along the hillside that Mac had dragged him down the day before beginning to loosen, crumble, and roll forward. He grabbed Mac’s arm, pulling him the rest of the way inside and nodded as Gray slammed the broken door shut, moving the cot and the table in front of the door, jamming them against the side wall to wedge them in place.

Jack continued to pull Mac back until they hit the opposite wall. Gray joined them.

The snow hit the cabin with a jarring force, shaking the walls, breaking the window, and making Jack want to scream in retaliation of the noise. He’d survived tornadoes in Texas, and this rivaled those in volume and terror.

It was over in minutes. And the cabin still stood.

Mac, however, was a different story.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  **a/n:** While I definitely wouldn’t advise using mouthwash to treat a wound—despite its chemical compound—I learned the honey trick when writing h/c stories for _The Musketeers_ , so that’s actually a thing. Also, I used Google translate for all of the Russian phrasing, so apologies if it’s way off.


	4. Chapter 4

_-Mac-_

He couldn’t stop replaying that day in Farah. It was on a loop in his mind, like a movie reel stuck on its track. The image of the crumbled building and Jack’s limp hand and slack features covered in dust beneath rubble burned into the backs of his eyelids.

He didn’t even know what made him think of it—and something had him wanting to ask Harry, but…he knew Harry was gone, so that instinct didn’t even make sense. It was as though multiple timelines were overlapping and twisting in his mind, his memory skipping from one to the other without plan or purpose.

The pain didn’t help.

It slipped through his system like razorblades, stabbing him viciously when he inhaled, twisting through him when he exhaled. Jack had always been so good at controlling the really bad pain. He’d holler like he was being flayed alive if he got a paper cut and yet barely speak when he was bleeding out from a bullet wound.

Mac wanted to take a lesson, to be stoic and brave, but _God_ , it hurt. Everything, everywhere. And he felt like he was burning up from the inside out.

When Jack ran toward the Russian agent, tackling him into the snow, Mac panicked. It was the only word for it. Fear like he’d not known in years gripped his heart and a voice inside him spoke with absolute certainty that if he did not _do something_ his best friend and partner was going to die.

He’d stumbled forward, his weakened body wavering and taking his steadiness from him. He landed hard on his knees when he heard Isaac Gray scream, “ _No_!”

Jerking his eyes up to the blinding light against the white and pink-tinged snow, he saw Isaac grabbing the big Russian off of Jack and his partner slumped in the snow gasping and coughing, clearly dazed. Reality took on a strange, sepia-toned hue, time slowed, and MacGyver began to move on autopilot.

He didn’t really register picking up the RPG and lifting it to his shoulder. He didn’t register shouting to the three men or trading threats with the FSB Agent. The first thing that penetrated the cloudy haze of his perception was Jack’s voice.

Soft, but with a weight that only Harry’s voice had ever held for him before.

“Mac.”

“I’m not losing anyone else, Jack,” Mac told him. Pleaded with him. “I _can’t_.”

“There’s always another way,” Jack reminded him.

With that, Mac felt his body give in. He released the burden of the weapon, the world coming back into stark focus, the brilliance of the snow searing his eyes and scolding him for even thinking he could have pulled that trigger. When the explosion brought the mountainside down, he wasn’t even surprised. His only thought was to get his team to safety.

He registered Jack grabbing him, pulling him. He registered Isaac putting up the fastest make-shift barricade in history. He register the snow slamming against the cabin, and he _wanted_ to engage. He wanted to roll through a plan of escape and evade.

He wanted to get them out of there. But his body wasn’t interested in what he wanted.

And before he knew it, he was on his knees, one hand pressed helplessly to his burning side, the other reaching desperately for Jack, trying to anchor himself.

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Jack said, his cold hand wrapping around Mac’s. “Right here, bud.”

“Holy shit,” Gray was saying, his voice thin and breathy with pain and shock. “It buried us.”

Mac ached, from the inside out. He felt sick and scared and angry and strangely like he wanted to cry. He looked over as Jack knelt next to him, the older man’s hands at his shoulders, his brown eyes scanning his face as though Mac was the only worry in his world right now. As if a bomb Mac had built hadn’t just caused an avalanche and buried them in the Canadian wilderness.

“Talk to me, Mac,” Jack said, his hands going to Mac’s face, cupping it at his jaw. The cool touch of Jack’s palms on his heated skin made Mac shiver. “What’s going on with you?”

“I didn’t…I wasn’t…,” he breathed.

He couldn’t seem to land on a word. They slipped out of his grasp like fireflies, his mind too busy replaying lost scenes of his past and tossing up random bits of information like confetti. He could see the formula for mixing a bomb from a flare, the mess of wires beneath a pressure plate, the mathematical equation for the distance light travels between the sun and the earth.

He could hear Harry’s voice saying his name and Jack’s desperate sob of anguish at Whiskey’s fate. He could feel the sensation of falling from the tree and the spike of fear when he saw the big grey wolf staring at him.

It all collided and spun around him, everything happening at once and yet seeming to stretch out until the light around him sagged and gapped like taffy pulled too far.

“…need you to breathe with me, bud, okay?” Jack was saying to him, calloused palms pressing against Mac’s jaw. “We’re okay—you’re okay. Just take a breath. One breath.”

Mac blinked, realizing that at some point he’d reached up and was gripping Jack’s wrists, staring at his partner with eyes blurry from unshed tears. He pulled in a breath and felt a tear spill, tracking down his wind-burned face to the corner of his mouth. He exhaled slowly and tasted the salt on his lips.

“Atta boy,” Jack smiled at him, looking for all the world like that one breath was the difference between them dying cold and alone and walking away from all of this. “One more, okay? One more and I’ll quit harping at ya.”

Mac took another breath and forced himself to loosen his grip on Jack, his hands stiff to the point of creaking.

“I didn’t mean to bury us,” he said finally. His voice sounded crusty, as if he’d put it away a long time ago and was just getting out now because he had nothing else to use.

“You didn’t bury us, Think Tank,” Gray panted, peeling his coat off his bloody arm. “I did.”

“You good, bud?” Jack asked, his hands sliding back to Mac’s shoulders. “I gotta help out our new friend, here.”

Mac nodded, and as Jack released him and stood up, he sank back, resting against the wall. He needed to focus, to get his thoughts to line up and behave. It didn’t do him much good to have almost-perfect recall and genius-level intelligence if his gifts turned his brain into something that would have made Jackson Pollock proud.

“Yeah, Ivan did a number on you, man,” Jack said, using Gray’s knife to cut away his sleeve. “Looks like a through-and-through, though. So, there’s that.”

“Yay me,” Gray ground out through clenched teeth.

Mac watched numbly as Jack went to the broken window and scooped up some of the snow spilling through the opening, using that to both clean and numb the wound. Gray grit his teeth, holding on to the back of the chair so tightly Mac could see his knuckles turn white.

“Want me to use the safety pins?” Jack asked; Mac picked up on the teasing lilt in his tone.

Gray simply glared at him.

“I take it that’s a no,” Jack muttered. “How about honey?”

“Honey is good,” Mac spoke up, his brain gaining traction. “It’ll protect the wound, draw fluid out.”

Jack grinned over at him like he’d just won the Nobel Peace Prize. “Yep!” He moved over to the shelf to retrieve the honey bottle as Gray sank down to sit in the chair instead.

“How…,” Mac tilted his head looking between Gray and Jack. “How did you know about honey?”

“’cause our friend the former medic over here used it on you,” Jack told him, heading back to Gray and bandaging up his arm using the honey and the leftover clean scraps of MacGyver’s sweatshirt.

Mac pressed his hand to his side, feeling the heat there through his clothes. “Oh, right.”

“How’s that feel?” Jack asked the CIA Agent.

Gray flexed his hand. “Okay. My fingers are a bit numb, though. That’s probably not a good sign.”

“Sorry, man. I left my Neurology degree in my other coat,” Jack shrugged.

Mac rolled his eyes with a drowsy grin, and then winced as his side pinged a stab of pain up through his torso to the base of his skull.

“We need to figure out how to get out of here,” Gray muttered, still flexing his hand.

Jack turned away from Gray and crouched down beside Mac. “We got a few minutes,” he said. “I want to check your bandage, Mac.”

“’s okay,” Mac replied, his tongue feeling sluggish and oddly heavy. Jack ignored him and reached for the sweatshirt bandage around his side, brushing his fingers against Mac’s heated skin. “He’s… _mmmrphhh_ ,” he arched his neck, pressing his head against the wall behind him as he tried to hold back a pained shudder. “He’s right, Jack.”

“I know he is,” Jack replied with forced casualness. Mac sensed the Jack Panic Meter bury itself in the red—it was Jack’s way of trying to convince anyone in his vicinity that he had everything under control when in fact he was terrified. “Just think this time we go out there with an actual plan.”

“I’m a fan of plans,” Mac breathed, trying to not pant from the pain as Jack pulled his sweatshirt back down over his bandage.

Jack arched an eyebrow at him. “Whatever, Mr. I’m Making This Up As I Go,” he scoffed. “Name _one_ plan you’ve made.”

Mac swallowed, willing to play the game if it kept Jack calm. Especially as their banter was helping him focus, quieting the chaos in his head.

“El Noche, escaping prison, with the batteries and salt,” Mac replied.

Jack pushed himself to his feet. “Oh, ‘cause _that_ worked out so well.” He grabbed up a canteen and sloshed it to make sure there was water inside, then handed it to Mac.

“You didn’t say it had to be a _successful_ plan,” Mac pointed out, accepting the canteen, and taking a drink of the tepid water. He nodded toward Gray and handed the canteen back to Jack.

His partner moved over to where the CIA Agent sat slumped a bit over his wounded arm. Mac registered their voices, but not their words. His eyes had caught on to the maps of the area tacked to the wall on his left. Eyes tracking the darkened lines marking logging trails, predator territories, and wildlife safe zones, he began to think about the map Matty had given them, where he’d marked out the grid for them to follow when looking for Gray.

“Jack,” he said suddenly, trying to get his legs under him.

Jack stopped mid-sentence, Mac not even sure what he’d been saying, and moved over to him, easing him to his feet. Once vertical, Mac leaned heavily against his friend, discovering immediately that he lacked the strength to balance on his own. He nodded toward the maps on the wall.

“The predator trails,” he said, hating the way his voice wavered.

“What about them?”

Mac looked over at his friend, seeing exhaustion and worry painting bruises under Jack’s eyes this close to him. “Remember our grid?”

“You mean, the one that ended up getting me shot with ketamine?” Jack growled, tossing a glare over his shoulder toward Gray.

“Exactly—they line up with the predator trails on this map,” Mac nodded.

“How the hell do you know that?” Gray exclaimed standing up and peering at the map with them.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mac waved a clumsy hand at him. “I just do. Point is, look—“

He tried to point to a place on the map but pulled up short as the motion seemed to set his wound on fire. Pressing a hand against his side he closed his eyes and leaned against Jack.

“Easy, kiddo,” Jack said softly, holding his elbow, and helping him sink into the chair Gray had just vacated. “Just…use your words, okay? No need for show and tell.”

Mac narrowed his eyes at Jack, but let the youthful references go simply because he didn’t have the strength to argue…and he knew Jack was scared. And when Jack was scared, he reverted to helicopter parent mode.

“See that juncture there where the heavy black line and the thin green line intersect?” Mac asked. Jack pointed on the map. “To your right, yeah, there.”

Jack kept is finger in place, then glanced down at Mac. “Yeah, so?”

“That’s our exfil.”

“Holy shit,” Gray muttered, moving closer. He dragged his finger down a bit from Jack’s to a red triangle that looked like a yield sign. “This is the ranger cabin.”

“Exactly,” Mac exhaled. “If we follow the predator trails,” he grit his teeth, forcing out the rest of the words, “we’ll be at the exfil in under an hour.”

“Assuming we don’t get eaten by wolves,” Jack said, dropping his finger, and tipping his head in concession. “Think they’ll wait around for us?”

“I sure hope so,” Gray muttered. “Where’s this grid map of yours?”

Jack pointed to the contents from the pack and Gray made his way over to dig out the map.

“We still got one problem,” Jack pointed out, fingers resting on his hip bones. “We’re kinda trapped in this damn cabin.”

“Are we?” Gray challenged, standing with the map in his hand. “I mean, sure the window’s covered with snow, but maybe it didn’t completely cover the door?”

“Be my guest,” Jack gestured to the door.

Gray arched a brow, handing Mac the map, and moved over to the door. It took him a moment to shove the table aside, the remaining ‘Pinterest bomb’ rolling from the top and to the floor to come to a rest against Mac’s boot. Jack helped him move the cot aside from where he’d jammed it against the wall, then stepped back as Gray tugged the broken door open.

The sight that met their eyes wouldn’t be soon erased from Mac’s memory.

The big Russian had survived.

Curled up to protect himself from the force of the snow, he was pressed against the door, his body having made a small cave in the snow completely covering the doorway. When Gray stepped back out of shock, the FSB Agent tumbled inside the cabin, lying still at first, then slowly uncurling.

“Son of a bitch,” Jack breathed. “He’s like the Energizer Bunny.”

“Get a gun on him,” Gray ordered.

Mac tore his eyes from the recovering Russian to see that Gray was on the other side of the room from the weapons they had left. Jack crossed quickly in front of Mac to get to where he’d left his Glock on the floor, and as he turned, Mac saw the Russian push up to his elbow, looking slowly around the cabin.

The man’s face was a mess—crushed nose covering his mouth and chin with blood, lacerated forehead spilling blood into one eye. His pale eyes sighted in on MacGyver and he spit blood onto the floor.

“Маленький волк,” he growled.

Mac heard Jack bring his weapon up as the Russian got slowly to his knees.

“He said that before—what’s he saying?” Jack demanded.

“He called me little wolf,” Mac replied, feeling oddly breathless with the FSB Agent’s eyes on him. He could see the man’s hand was also broken, the wrist bent at an odd angle.

The Russian struggled to his feet, his breathing raspy and wet, blood splashing from his lips. As the three men stared in shock, he staggered close to Mac.

“Hey! Hey, you stop right there,” Jack ordered, training his Glock on the man.

The Russian ignored him, and Mac felt himself pulling back against the chair as the Russian shuffled forward and then fell to his knees in front of Mac.

“Ты не мог меня убить,” the Russian whispered.

“What’s he saying?” Jack demanded, his voice clipped and anxious.

“He said that…I couldn’t kill him,” Mac managed, feeling as though there was a hand at his throat as the man’s eyes raked over him.

The Russian reached for Mac with his good hand and Jack moved forward immediately, pressing the muzzle of his weapon against the Russian’s temple, stopping the man’s hand part-way to Mac’s face.

“Not a chance,” Jack growled.

“You…should…have,” the Russian matched Jack’s tone in halting English, never taking his gaze from Mac.

To Mac’s horror, the man twisted his good wrist slightly and a blade ejected smoothly from his sleeve. Before the Russian was able to follow through with whatever he’d planned for the blade, Jack pulled the trigger and the FSB Agent fell in a lifeless heap at Mac’s feet. For several heartbeats no one moved, then Mac heard Gray exhale harshly from across the room.

“Mac?”

“’m okay,” Mac replied to his partner automatically. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the dead man’s face. “I’m fine.”

He was shaking from the inside out, his heart like a bird trapped in a cage. His hands trembled, his lips shook with the force of his breath. He knew it was just adrenalin, it was biological, it was normal, but it made him lightheaded and he had to grip the heavy wooden seat of the chair to balance himself.

“It’s over,” Gray rasped. “They’re…it’s done.”

No one replied; Mac registered that Jack was staring at him, not at the body on the floor like everyone else. He looked up and met his partner’s calm, brown eyes. Jack may be a bit of an emotional basket case at times, may have an unhealthy obsession with Bruce Willis films, and may behave like overwatch extended to all areas of Mac’s life, but when it came to being a soldier and doing what needed to be done to keep his team safe, Jack Dalton was as steady as they came.

“I’m good,” Mac said quietly, willing that lie to show in his eyes.

Jack shook his head. “Naw, you’re not,” he said. “But you’ll make it.”

Mac swallowed and nodded. Jack turned to face Gray and Mac realized the CIA Agent was struggling a bit himself. He stood stiff and still, his wounded arm close to his body, his eyes on the dead FSB Agent. Jack slid his Glock into his waistband and crossed the room to stand in front of the other man, their sizes matching to the point Jack looked him square in the eye.

“It’s not done yet, man,” Jack said, ducking his chin but maintaining eye contact. “You hearing me, Isaac?”

Gray nodded shakily.

“We may have found some wolf trail to get us back, but we’ve got a mountain full of snow on top of us and two wounded soldiers,” Jack said, his tone clipped and serious. “We need all of us on this.”

“I…y-yes,” Gray nodded again. He cleared his throat. “I’m here. I’m with you.”

“Good,” Jack turned and eyed the cabin’s interior.

Mac felt the man’s eyes slip over him as though cataloging him—mostly likely as a liability at this stage. He could feel the fever settling into his joints, thrumming at his side. He knew he was bleeding again, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it at this point. He had to _think_ ; there was always a solution.

And then the possibilities began to light up behind his eyes like fireworks. Scenario after scenario played out through each potential ending as though he was reading a _Choose Your Own Adventure_ book at high-speed. Eyes darting around the cabin at what they had available, he pulled in a breath.

“Uh-oh,” Jack said, side-eying him. “I know that look.”

“I got an idea,” Mac said.

“But…?”

Mac grimaced, looking up at him. “You’re not going to like it.”

Jack arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to break his phone this time,” he said, jerking his thumb at Gray. “I left mine at home.”

Mac had forgotten about the phone. “Okay…I’ve got _two_ ideas.”

It was as simple as it was crazy. He knew it would work, but…convincing Jack was going to be the trick.

“How many bars you got, Isaac?” Mac asked, trying to push to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. He sank back down and looked up at the other man.

“Zip,” Gray replied, grimacing.

“’s okay,” Mac replied, slightly breathless. He wasn’t sure why he was so weak, but he felt his heart slamming once more against his chest. He caught Gray looking at him careful. “’m okay.”

“We got any water left in those canteens?” Gray asked.

Jack immediately moved to check. One was half-full.

“Drink it, Mac,” Gray ordered.

“’m fine,” Mac protested, but couldn’t seem to get his lips and tongue to work in concert.

“You’re dehydrated, suffering from exposure and extreme exhaustion, losing blood, fighting an infection, and no doubt have several hairline fractures to go along with the bruises on your body,” Gray replied, his voice growing stronger as he listed out Mac’s injuries. “Drink the damn water.”

Jack’s eyebrows went up and he obediently handed Mac the canteen. Mac drank in several short gulps, his hand shaking the canteen against his lips. He had to admit he felt a bit steadier when he handed the now empty canteen back to Jack.

“’kay, look,” Mac said, pointing to the human-shaped cave that the Russian’s body had made in the snow packed against the door. “If we dig a bit deeper—say, ten or twelve feet—we can bury the last bomb and blow ourselves an escape route. Once we get out, I can use the trip wire and the last of the MREs to boost the signal from Isaac’s phone and reach the Phoenix.”

Both men stared at him for several seconds in silence. Mac blinked back at them, waiting.

“You want to… _blow up_ …the door to the cabin,” Jack repeated, slowly.

Mac shook his head. “No, I want to blow up the snow _blocking_ the door to the cabin.”

“So, who is going on the suicide mission to light the fuse?” Gray asked.

At this, Mac grinned. “You can do more with guns besides fire them,” he replied. He looked at Jack. “You trust me?”

“Always have, always will,” Jack replied immediately.

“Okay, then…let’s start digging,” he tried to stand once more and grabbed a breath when the world tilted abruptly to the left. He felt Jack’s hand at his elbow and had to blink hard to clear his vision.

“Sit your ass back down before you pass out,” Jack barked worriedly. “Without you, Gray and I are just two grunts in a buried cabin.”

“’m okay,” Mac mumbled, leaning sideways to prop his elbow on the table, his head in his hand. He felt terrible. “Gimme all the guns and ammo.”

“That just sounds so wrong coming from you,” Jack muttered, but nodded toward Gray. “See if Ivan still has his Makarov on him.”

Gray obediently pulled the dead man’s body to the side, searching it for weapons and ammo. The gun was gone, but he found several rounds of ammunition, which he added to the pile Jack was making on the table next to Mac. He also found three ketamine darts and held them up to Jack.

“Guess they all were packing,” he said, “not just the one whose clothes I, uh…borrowed.”

“Just…just, how about you set those down nice and slow,” Jack grumbled, tapping the air with his gloved fingertips. “If I don’t see another green tassled-dart for the rest of my life it’ll be too soon.”

Gray grinned slightly, and he set the darts down. He then pulled the slim pack off of the FSB Agent’s back and emptied its content onto their pile of dwindling supplies. Grabbing the bigger pot, he dug some of the snow out of the window, he set it on the stove to melt.

“Okay, guess we get to diggin’!” Jack clapped his hands together. He glanced at Mac and grinned. “It’s a good plan, man. I’m excited to be part of it.”

Mac felt the side of his mouth tip up appreciatively. His partner could always read him. And right now, he was walking a pretty fine line between holding on and letting go.

Reaching over his head carefully, he tore off a section of the map from the wall, then took out his Swiss Army knife and began to carefully remove the casings from the bullets, separating the primer, powder, and projectiles into three piles, sifting the powder onto the map so that it didn’t slip through the cracks in the table.

Mac tuned everything out—the sounds of Jack and Gray digging through the snow, the chill in the room as the fire died, the increasing claustrophobia that came with being buried—and focused his considerable brain power on the simple task of gathering all of the primer caps and gunpowder he could. His hands trembled, making it hard to work the casing off without slicing his fingers, but he was determined.

When he’d finished with all the ammo from the Glock and Beretta and had started in on the rifle, he looked up, turning his focus on his two companions. Jack was sitting on the floor just inside the door, panting, sweaty, and utterly exhausted. There was an impressive pile of snow beneath the window—some of it pink-tinged. Gray was filling a canteen and telling Jack to finish the one in his hand.

It occurred to Mac then that Jack was the only one capable of climbing through the snow tunnel to dig deep enough and plant the bomb. He could barely stand without passing out and Gray’s arm stopped him from doing much except pulling the snow away from Jack.

“Jack?” he called, surprised by the rasp in his voice.

“Right here, man,” Jack panted.

“You good?”

“I’ll be better when we’re outta this place,” Jack tipped his head back against the wall. “Whew! Who knew snow was so damn heavy!”

“How far back are we?”

Gray crouched down and peered into the snow tunnel. “Maybe ten feet from the door.”

Mac started to calculate the concussive force of the bomb and the amount of gunpowder he had and shook his head. “We need a few more feet,” he said, “if we want to be sure there won’t be blast back at us…but, I don’t think we’re going to have enough gunpowder for a fuse longer than…twelve feet.”

“Twelve feet it is,” Jack panted. He started to push to his feet and Gray held out a hand.

“We’ve got time,” the CIA Agent stated. “You need fuel.”

“Think we tapped out the hearty beef stew,” Jack sighed, drinking more from the canteen.

Gray grabbed the last MRE and tossed it to Jack. “Eat up.”

Mac watched Jack consume the MRE as though disconnected from the scene around him. His body felt like it belonged to someone else, his hands heavy weights at the ends of shaking arms. If he could get his mind to stop slipping its grasp on the here and now, he might be able to gain control of his body, but as it was, he was feeling lucky that he hadn’t slid off his chair into a puddle of pain on the floor.

“You still with me, Mac?”

Jack’s voice startled him, and he jerked slightly, focusing in on his partner’s face.

“’m here,” he replied.

“Good, ‘cause you look about a thousand miles away right now,” Jack noted, staring at him. “How are you doing on those bullets?”

Mac looked back at the table and then at the rifle bullet in his hand. “I’m good, Jack.”

Jack took a couple more bites while Gray started to go through the pile of supplies.

“What do you think Harry would say about all this?” Jack asked suddenly.

“Something wise,” Mac replied, with a slight grin. “Something that I’d spend hours trying to figure out how it applied to the situation only to realize he was just trying to distract me from worrying.”

Jack stood up and rolled his neck, stretching his arms then put his gloves back on. “Like what?”

Mac focused back on the bullet in his hand, working off the casing. “Oh, something like…empty cans make the most noise. Or, it’s better to go slow somewhere than to go fast nowhere.”

He split the bullet parts and picked up another one, noting how Jack and Gray had become a two-man relay with the snow and kitchen pots.

“What else?” Jack called as he passed back a pot full of snow.

“You don’t make mistakes, your mistakes make you,” Mac remembered, “or, some people walk in the rain while others just get wet.”

The pile of gunpowder grew, and the pile of bullets dwindled.

“That all?” Jack asked, handing back another pot of snow.

It finally dawned on MacGyver that Jack was pulling a Harry. He smiled. “Yeah, Jack. That’s about it.”

“Good, ‘cause I think that’s about twelve feet.”

Mac swallowed and nodded. “We need another barricade,” he said looking at Gray.

“Roger that,” the other man nodded.

It felt odd to stay sitting while he instructed Jack how to set up the bomb and leave a trail of gunpowder through the snow so that the spark would ignite the fuse, but Jack was adamant that he not try climbing back there himself.

“It’d be like a kid in those damn jungle gyms at the fast food places,” Jack muttered, gathering up supplies, “and I’d just have to climb in there after you to get you out.”

The bomb placed, the primers positioned to spark, and the gunpowder trail laid all the way to the back of the small cabin, Gray pulled the table over and layered it with the cot, moving the remaining firewood to the back wall so that it wasn’t turned into projectiles. He helped Mac to his feet and eased him to the floor behind the table while Jack crouched by the gunpowder fuse.

“Hey, Mac?” Jack said without looking at him.

“Yeah?”

“If this doesn’t work,” Jack glanced to the side, “I want you to know that it’s been an honor to know you.”

Mac felt his throat close up for a moment. “It’s going to work.”

“Yeah, but…y’know. If it doesn’t.”

Mac heard the tears pressing against Jack’s words.

“Same here, man,” Mac replied quietly.

“Well, hell,” Gray said quietly. “I hope it works. Because I do _not_ plan on dying today.”

“I hear that,” Jack nodded and raised a fist toward the other man. Mac smiled when Gray bumped his fist against Jack’s with barely a pause. “You boys ready?”

Both Mac and Gray nodded, and Gray grabbed the protruding legs of the table to further brace it. Jack used Mac’s knife to hit the primer creating a spark that scrambled down the path of the gunpowder, then he ducked back behind the table next to Mac.

They waited; Mac counted the seconds.

Just when he felt like it had taken too long and the fuse had been defeated by the snow, the bomb exploded and the cabin shook, snow blasting inwards and upwards, peppering the cook stove, the table barricade, the FSB Agent’s body, the walls, the shattered window. The men behind the table ducked and covered their heads and Mac heard Jack shout.

It was over in a minute; the men sat still for a beat, then looked up and around. Jack barked out a laugh, then looked over at Gray who poked his head over the top of the table.

“I see sunlight!” he shouted triumphantly.

“That’s my boy!” Jack cheered, hooking an arm around Mac’s neck and pulling his head to his shoulder. He rubbed Mac’s hair, then released him, standing up. “Oh, ain’t that a pretty sight.”

He reached down and helped Mac to his feet; Mac leaned heavily against Jack and grinned at the sight of the sun streaking down through the opening and into the snow tunnel.

“We gotta get outta here,” Gray said, moving to the FSB Agent’s now-empty pack.

Jack helped Mac to the chair and then began to load up the pack with anything salvageable from their pile of supplies. They each put on their cold weather gear—Gray’s stiff with dried blood both on his back and his arm—and Jack handed Mac his coat.

“I’m not coming with you,” Mac said quietly, holding his coat in his lap.

Jack froze, turning slowly around to face him. “I think that explosion messed up my hearing, man, ‘cause it _sounded_ like you just said you weren’t coming with us.”

Mac swallowed. “I’m…I’m hurting, Jack,” he confessed. “I can’t make it across the room without passing out, let alone to the exfil.”

Jack practically stomped over to stand in front of his partner. “You have to be eight kinds of crazy, you think I’m leaving you here.”

“I can show you how to rig up the phone. You can…you can get to the exfil, have them send someone back for me,” Mac offered, looking from Jack to Gray, hoping for backup in his logic.

“That’s at least another twenty-four hours, Mac,” Gray was shaking his head. “You don’t have enough food and water here to make it another six. And with the way you look now….”

“You’re coming with us,” Jack declared, starting to turn away. Mac snagged the edge of his partner’s coat, halting him.

“Jack,” Mac tried, finding it hard to keep his voice steady.

His heart was skipping frantically in his chest, his side was throbbing, and the fever had turned his joints to lava. He could literally feel every muscle along his back, and his ribs…whatever hairline fractures had been there before had turned into breaks by now.

“You know this is the best way,” he argued. “You’re the one who said I was the smartest guy in the room.”

Jack scoffed. “That was before your brains were being fever-cooked. You’re coming with us.”

“Jack— “

“ _No_ , man,” Jack barked, making Mac jump from his tone. The older man dropped to his knees, grabbing Mac’s wrists, and holding the younger agent’s arms steady. “You think I’m going to let you drag my ass across the Canadian wilderness just to walk away from you _now_?”

“That was different,” Mac argued. He was wearing down; he needed to convince Jack to leave soon so that he could pass out in peace.

“No.” Jack shook his head adamantly. “ _No_ different.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, moving his grip to Mac’s shoulders. “I am _not_ walking away from you, kid. I know every person who has ever mattered to you in your whole damn life has left you. _I will not_.”

Mac sat stone-still, caught off-guard by the vehemence in Jack’s tone. His eyes burned, and the blur of tears softened Jack’s angry features.

“You get me, Angus?”

“I get you,” Mac replied, a tear escaping as he gasped in a quick breath.

“Now,” Jack released him and stood up. “Get your damn coat on and let me and Gray figure out how we’re going to carry you.”

Mac slid his arms through the sleeves of his coat, feeling numb. He listened to Jack and Gray talk about trading off carrying him, using the Russian spy’s coat to make a sling, avoiding his wounded side and Gray’s wounded arm and he suddenly realized Jack had stated the answer minutes prior.

“The cot,” he said, interrupting what he was sure would have been a highly amusing argument about physics between the two agents if he’d been listening. “Use the cot.”

Jack and Gray exchanged a glance.

“Was going to be my next suggestion,” Jack muttered.

He pulled the cot over to Mac and they looked at it from each angle, before Mac instructed how to take apart the frame and turn it into a travois. While Jack got to work, Gray gathered what Mac needed to boost the cell phone signal. Then, with one last glance back at the FSB Agent’s body, Gray crawled down the tunnel and up through the hole, leaning back in for Jack to send up the cot-travois and pack.

“Okay, you’re up, bud,” Jack turned and helped Mac to his feet, one arm around his waist, as Mac clung to Jack’s shoulder with his other. “We’ll take it slow, okay? Got all the time in the world.”

“Famous last line,” Mac gasped as they reached the door.

“Yeah…didn’t think about it that way,” Jack muttered.

Mac started to crawl through the tunnel, forcing himself to breathe steady, groaning helplessly with the ache in his body, the tremble of his limbs. Ahead of him was sunlight, behind him his partner. He could do this. He could do this.

He could do this.

He reached the ragged hole the bomb blasted through the snow and shifted to his hip, staring up to where Gray hung down with his good arm extended.

“Need a hand?” Gray asked.

Mac nodded, shifting to his knees, then reaching up for Gray. He felt the man clasp his forearm in a solid grip, then Jack pushed from beneath him, lifting him from the snow-packed earth. The motion stretched his abused muscles, pulled his wounded side, and Mac shouted, helplessly. He could hear Jack below him, hear Gray above him, but his world shifted and narrowed until there was only pain.

For a stretch of time, there was nothing but the hiss of white noise in Mac’s ears and the dark of his closed lids. The first thing he was aware of was his own hammering breath, followed closely by his heart choking him. There were hands at his waist, hands on his face, and he was shaking. He could feel his body tremble around him.

“…do this to me, man, not now. C’mon, I got you, okay? I got you, Mac.”

_Jack_. Jack’s voice, constant and steady and sounding scared to death.

“’m here,” Mac croaked. “’m okay.”

“Hey!” The smile in Jack’s voice was unmistakable. “There you are!”

Mac blinked his eyes open, slamming them shut once more as the sun speared his brain. He felt the coolness of a shadow move over his face and he cautiously opened his eyes once more to see Jack’s anxious face looming over him.

“What happened?” he rasped.

“Well, we…uh, kinda broke you a little bit,” Jack winced, his hand still at the side of Mac’s face. “Gray’s fixing up your bandage best we can.”

“Broke me?” Mac squinted, trying to see down to his waist where Gray bent over his hip.

“Your wound…your ribs…,” Jack winced again. “You’re a mess, bud.”

“Patched you up best I could,” Gray said, sitting back on his heels and holding his wounded arm. “When you’re ready, we sure could use that amped up phone call.”

Mac swallowed, nodding. He shifted his eyes to Jack. “Help me up?”

“You got it, brother,” Jack said, shifting around behind Mac and easing him up off the snow until he sagged back against Jack, his head on his partner’s shoulder, his back against Jack’s chest.

Gray handed him the cell phone and supplies he’d asked for. Pulling his gloves off with his teeth, Mac broke open the casing of the cell phone, plucked out the battery and began to hook the aluminum wrapping of the MRE to the slim wire. He then connected that to the circuit board and turned the phone on, handing it up to Jack.

“Get us outta here,” he breathed.

“Roger that,” Jack replied, and Mac felt him pull his gloves off and dial.

As Jack waited for a connection, Mac allowed himself to close his eyes, absorbing the relative security of Jack holding him up. He heard Jack start talking, but couldn’t find the energy to focus in on the conversation. Bits came through—Isaac’s name, the FSB, Mac being wounded, an avalanche, but he couldn’t fit the puzzle pieces of words together to form a picture.

He felt Jack hang up the phone and say something to Gray, but his head was muddled. None of the words connected to reason or meaning. A sound stilled his partner and he heard Gray catch his breath. A mournful howl, somehow both wild and heartbreaking at once, echoed across landscape completely changed by the snow. Mac waited to hear the answering cries and wasn’t disappointed.

“Shit,” Jack breathed, an arm wrapping around Mac protectively.

Mac opened his eyes, turning toward the sound, and saw the grey wolf standing on a newly exposed rock ledge, twenty feet away. He stared down at them and Mac felt himself smile.

“He made it,” he said softly.

“Whassat, bud?” Jack asked.

“Was afraid the snow got him, but he’s still here,” Mac continued, his eyes on the wolf.

As they watched, the wolf turned, nosed a darker member of its pack, and then took off into the trees, along the very trail they were planning to follow.

“Is that the wolf you said was watching you?” Jack asked him, his voice hushed.

Mac nodded against Jack’s chest.

“Little wolf,” Gray murmured. “No wonder.”

“What?” Mac stared at Gray. “What do you mean?”

Gray looked at him, his blue eyes bright in the sunlight. “There’s a Russian fairytale—called something like the Firebird and the Grey Wolf…I think. It’s been a long time since I heard it, but basically, a grey wolf saves a young prince and helps him get the girl. The prince’s brothers kill him out of jealousy, but the wolf is able to save his life.”

“Sounds…complicated,” Jack replied.

But Gray hadn’t looked away from Mac. “The big Russian saw you crash against a boulder, haul your friend for miles, get shot out of a tree…and every time, that wolf was watching you.”

Mac nodded. Little wolf. Who couldn’t kill the Russian spy.

And was only alive because of his partner.

“Jack….”

“I know, bud,” Jack rested his hand on Mac’s head. “I know.”

Gray laid the cot-travois flat and Jack helped Mac climb on. Using the straps of the pack, Jack shifted the harness they’d made over his shoulders and Gray led the way, Jack close behind, Mac on the travois.

“The wolves marked it for us,” Gray said over his shoulder. “Unbelievable.”

“Just keep your eyes out,” Jack ordered. “Matty said the chopper would be at the exfil in an hour and would wait.”

Mac closed his eyes. He could hang in there for an hour. He could last that long.

At some point, though, he slipped off the edge of awareness without realizing it. Confused, he found himself staring at the figure of his father in a maroon Members Only jacket walking next to the travois, arguing with Harry on the other side of the travois about the true validity of Newton’s Third Law.

He tried to break in and explain to his father why a system could not ‘bootstrap’ itself into motion with purely internal forces—that it must interact with an external object to achieve acceleration, but then Jack stepped in and confused him even more.

“He’s burning up,” Jack said, talking to someone over his head. Maybe it was his father. Maybe he’d found them and was going to take them home—after all, he would be a prime example of an external object. “It’s not your dad, Mac. Just me, okay? Jack.”

“What is he talking about?” That was a different voice.

Not his dad’s, he didn’t think. But then, it had been so long since he’d heard from his dad, he didn’t remember what he sounded like.

“Friggin’ genius and your ginormous brain,” Jack was muttering and Mac felt something cold slide over his lips and he opened his mouth, letting the melting snow trickle down his throat. “Only you could try to argue physics when you’re delirious.”

“You lead,” said the overhead voice. It was familiar…but it wasn’t Dad. Or Harry. Or Jack. Mac wanted to draw away until he figured out that voice. “I’ll watch him.”

“What are you going to do? Cool him down with your CIA super powers?” Jack practically growled. Mac shivered. Jack was mad. “Not at you, bud, okay? You’re good. You just hang in there. Keep talking to Harry.”

The light was changing. He could feel it on his face. It felt like the world was moving around him.

It stroked is skin with fire-like fingers. It made him forget the cold. The cold that had almost taken Jack from him. The cold that Zoe had drown in. It was heat that had haunted him for so long. Heat from the bomb that took the Ambassador and his family in Argentina. Heat from the desert. Heat from so much fire it could melt sand to glass.

He felt cool wetness on his lips again and he swallowed when asked, not realizing that he called for Jack almost continuously. Not realizing that he was talking, exposing the fears of the heat, anguish of the losses, the helpless weight of guilt that pressed his heart flat and made it impossible to breathe most nights.

He just wanted to stop _hurting_ so much. He felt like he’d been hurting all his life.

“I know, bud,” Jack’s voice filtered in as the world kept moving. “I’m going to make it stop hurting, I promise. You just gotta hang in there with me a little longer.”

Time seemed to slip a bit then. He couldn’t feel the world anymore. Couldn’t feel the haunting heat or the aching cold. Couldn’t hear Jack’s voice. It should have scared him, this vast nothingness. But instead he felt peaceful, calm. Even his mind was quiet for a moment.

But then a shout. A press of air against his face, a sharp pain in his arm and suddenly the world was moving again. And there was noise.

So _much_ noise.

“…hear me, Agent MacGyver?”

“Jack…,” he wheezed, his throat raw, his lips cracked.

There was a mask over his face and the person leaning over him was a stranger. He tensed, swinging his arm up and pushing the face away. The noise was deafening and he needed to get away but _holy hell_ his side was on fire and someone was trying to press down on it and he couldn’t move, couldn’t back away—

“Mac! Mac, hey, easy, kiddo. It’s okay, it’s all good.”

He felt a sharp point stab him in the arm and something swept through his system like syrup, sliding around the frayed edges of his nerves and cooling the fire that slipped around his chest and easing his struggling breaths. His eyes rolled, looking for Jack, trying to balance himself in the ebb of panic and flow of something like sugar sliding around his perception.

“Jack?”

“Right here, bud,” came Jack’s voice and Mac realized the man’s hand was gripping his. He rolled his head to the side until Jack’s face came into view. “I’m right here. Not going to leave you. I promised, didn’t I?”

“What…?”

“Exfil, remember?” Jack told him, and suddenly the noise had meaning and substance and he was able to put the disjointed puzzle pieces together. A helicopter, taking them away from the cold, away from the snow, away from the wolves and the Russians.

“We’ll send someone back for the bodies, don’t you worry,” Jack was saying to him.

He wasn’t sure what was out loud and what was in his head. He needed to stop talking before he said something he needed to keep quiet.

“You mean, like you knowing more about Newton’s Laws than your dad or Harry combined?” Jack chuckled. “You say whatever you need to say, kid. Helps me know you’re still breathing.”

“Isaac?” Mac rasped.

“I’m here,” Gray replied from somewhere to Mac’s right. “Glad to know you remember me, though.”

He remembered. That was the problem, really. He always remembered. He remembered it all.

“I know you do, bud,” Jack said, his voice sad and soothing at once. He tightened his grip on Mac’s hand, patting the top of his head. “I know.”

Whatever had been in the shot they gave him eased his panic to the point of near relaxation and Mac let his eyelids droop, falling to sleep with Jack’s hand in his. The next time he woke the world was moving again, but he was too tired to figure out where it was going. There were lights overhead and strange faces peering over him and urgent voices saying words he recognized but couldn’t apply meaning to.

And then he was gone again. Slipping down into a place where awareness meant nothing to him.

It took an incessant beep and the steady cadence of Jack’s voice to bring him out of that place. He opened eyes gritty with sleep to see Jack sitting in a chair next to his bed, booted feet propped up on the side of the mattress, an Auto Week magazine in his hand, reading an article about Mustang Shelby engines out loud.

“… _to this very day_ ,” Jack read, “ _Shelby’s undeniable charm and irresistible brand of straight-talk-replication, Texas-barbecue-sauce smothered hucksterism is what drives the popularity of the brand that bears his name_.” Jack grinned and looked up. “See that right there is the truth, brother, because—“ He stopped mid-sentence. “Well, hey there, sleepy-head. Good to see those baby blues.”

“Hey,” Mac managed, his throat bone-dry.

Jack dropped his feet from the side of the bed and sat forward, grabbing a plastic cup from the side of the bed, using the bed controls to tilt Mac’s head up so that he could take a drink. He felt the coolness of the water slide through him like silk. Leaning back to take a breath, he looked around the room, feeling clearer and more alert than he had in…well, he wasn’t sure in how long.

“What day is it?” Mac asked, looking at the various IV’s in his arm.

“Wednesday,” Jack replied, lifting an eyebrow.

Mac blinked. That information meant nothing to him. “Okay, so…when did we hit the exfil?”

“Sunday,” Jack said. “How about you ask the question you really want an answer to?”

Mac smiled, dropping his head back to his pillow. “Okay. What the hell happened?”

Jack nodded, then shifted the side rail down so he could sit on the bed at Mac’s hip. “Well, since you asked,” he said, then cleared his throat. “It’s not the first time, you’ve asked, by the way. You’ve been awake off and on, but you were never really with it.”

“Seriously?”

Jack nodded, crossing is heart with his index finger. “Serious as a heart attack. But, your eyes are clear and you’re moving like an actual person and not like some marionette with its stings cut, so I’m going to go with you really being with me this time.”

“I’m with you,” Mac promised.

He noticed Jack’s color was much improved from the last time he’d seen him. He looked rested, and definitely like he’d had a steak dinner and a shower. He hitched one leg up on the bed so that he was turned part-way toward Mac, but he looked to the side.

“Once you got us able to hook into the Phoenix, you…basically tapped out,” Jack told him. “Don’t know how much of that trip you remember, but your fever spiked and you were rambling about your dad and Harry and Newton’s Law….”

Mac did actually remember some of that, but it was a confusing cobweb of reality and dreams.

“You called for me the whole time—didn’t believe I was there. Didn’t believe I was _me_ ,” Jack huffed and shook his head. “We got to the exfil and you started seizing.”

“I don’t remember that,” Mac said softly.

“Can’t imagine you would,” Jack replied. “They managed to get you stabilized and you seemed clearer, but then you passed out and nothing I did got you to wake up.” Jack shook his head. “Scared me to death, I don’t mind saying. Turns out you were pretty beat up, Mac. Internal bleeding—not sure if that was from the boulder or the swan-dive from the tree, but either way it went a long time without treatment. Infection. Broken ribs. And I’m pretty sure there isn’t a place between your shoulders and your hips that isn’t bruised.”

He felt sore, but credited the meds he could feel coursing through his system for keeping the worst of it at bay. He shifted stiffly in the bed, sitting up straighter. He could feel the catheter—an obvious necessity for someone who decided to sleep the last three days away—and the pinch of IVs, but other than that, he wasn’t as miserable as he knew he should be.

“Thanks for getting me out of there, Jack,” he said sincerely. “I don’t know how…,” he paused, trying to find the words that would mean as much as he needed them to. “You know you’re the reason I’m alive, right? Not just this time, but—“

“Hey,” Jack held up a hand. “Pretty sure we’re even in that department. I’m just glad you’re going to be okay.”

“How about you? With the ketamine?” Mac frowned, remembering that long, awful night as though it were yesterday.

“I’m good,” Jack waved a hand at him. “You did everything right. Shocker.” Jack grinned at him disarmingly. “Got me some fluids, some food, and some rest and I’m good as new. Gonna avoid animal tranquilizers from now on, but…I’m good.”

Mac exhaled slowly, not realizing how much he’d needed to hear just that. “They say how long I have to be in here?”

Jack shook his head. “Waiting on you to get done napping,” he replied. “But, I think if you behave yourself, you’ll get out soon enough.”

Mac nodded and dropped his head back. “I talked about my dad, huh?”

“You talked about a lot of stuff,” Jack told him, looking down at the palms of his hands. “Some stuff…I’d kinda suspected.”

The heat, Mac remembered. The heat, the loss, the weight…that crushing weight of defeat and helplessness and of not being enough. He hadn’t wanted Jack to know—hadn’t wanted to ask his friend to carry that load with him.

“You know,” Jack dropped a hand on his knee, looking at him askance. “I’m not just here to keep you in one piece.”

“I know,” Mac answered automatically, wanting more to soothe Jack’s feelings than to actually take him up on his offer.

Jack squinted his eyes and tilted his head slightly. “No, I don’t think you do. I don’t have to have been abandoned to know that it sucks, Mac.”

Mac brought his head up quickly, blinking in surprise. He’d never used that word to describe what his father had done to him, but hearing it in Jack’s voice felt as if a missing piece slipped into his heart.

“And... some of the shit that we survive, man,” Jack shook his head. “Some of it feels impossible. Feels like it couldn’t happen. But it does. And people die. Good people—people we try to save.”

Jack looked over at him; there was a story in his dark eyes that only someone who had lived what they’d lived could read. It was a weight that Jack was both taking from him and asking him to carry.

“You’re going to have to find a place to put it. Somewhere inside of you where don’t have to think about it every day. Because it’s the only way you’re going to be able to make it through all the days that are stretching out ahead of you,” Jack squeezed his leg. “And it’s the only way you’re going to be able to save all the people you’re still meant to save.”

Mac swallowed, looking down at his hands. “I know,” he whispered. He didn’t know _how_ …but he knew _what_. They sat quietly for a moment. Mac took another drink, then considered asking Jack if he could rest, when a thought occurred to him. “Hey—how’s Isaac?”

Jack smiled. “He’s good,” he replied. “Got his arm all patched up, got him to some CIA dudes Matty trusts to make his report.” He reached into the pocket of the jacket he had draped over the back of the chair. “He sent you something.”

Mac took the slim book from Jack and stared at the cover curiously. [_Tsarevich Ivan_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ivan_Tsarevich) _, the_[ _Firebird_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Firebird_\(Slavic_folklore\)) _and the Grey Wolf_. In Russian.

“It’s a Russian fairytale,” he said. He flipped through the first few pages, a grin suddenly breaking across his face. “It’s the one he was telling me….” He opened to the front page and saw an inscription written in Russian. “Think Tank,” he read aloud for Jack, “Since you’re not going to forget Crazy Ivan anytime soon, thought maybe a story about a heroic Ivan might be a good balance.”

Mac closed the book and smiled, thinking of the impossibility of them having survived that mission, the wolf the bear the snow the hill the boulder the cold the tree the enemy the friends….

“It’s all a bit too ying-yang zeny for me,” Jack shrugged, glancing at him, “ _little wolf_.”

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Mac laughed. It was a broken thing, fragile edges of sound tripping around the room and teasing the air between them, but it was still a laugh.

Until it shattered and collected into sobs.

Without a word—as though he’d been waiting for this exact moment—Jack leaned forward, resting his calloused hand at the back of Mac’s neck and pulled the younger man toward him until Mac’s forehead was pressed against Jack’s shoulder. Almost helplessly, like a drowning man reaching for a rope, Mac anchored his hands in Jack’s shirt and felt the man’s other arm wrap gently around his bruised back. His sobs wrenched from his sore chest, a strangled, smothered sound in the quiet room.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Jack whispered against Mac’s head, his lips in Mac’s hair. “It might take a bit, but you’re gonna be okay, man. I promise. I _promise_ you.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Mac cried, the words tripping on themselves as they fell from his lips.

“It’s not your fault, man,” Jack soothed. “It’s not your fault, okay?”

Jack’s arm tightened around his back as Mac spilled the pain from losing the Ambassador, from watching Zoe drown, from watching Pena blow up, from being unable to find his dad, from his dad walking away, from the loss of so many for so long. He cried until he was limp, exhausted, and Jack had to ease him back against the pillows.

He caught his breath, the tears drying on his face as he saw Jack wipe his own tears away. It made him smile slightly, his exhaustion almost overpowering him.

“Hey, you should know by now you don’t cry alone when I’m around,” Jack huffed out a small laugh.

“Thank you,” Mac replied softly.

Jack nodded, clapping Mac on the knee, then standing from the bed. “Hey, I got me an idea.”

“What’s that?” Mac asked, feeling his eyes growing heavy.

“How about I tell you when you get out of here?”

“’Kay,” Mac agreed, letting his eyes close, feeling lighter than he had in months.

 

**Los Angeles, two weeks later**

_-Still Mac-_

Two weeks of rest—which in the eyes of his friends included several days’ inundation of the entire _Star Wars_ saga, more pancakes than he ever wanted to see again, and a crash course in how to hack into Russian servers, with a few Bruce Willis movies thrown in for good measure—hadn’t been enough to keep Mac from walking up the stairs of the old newspaper building like he was edging on eighty instead of staring down twenty-seven.

“This isn’t where I went the last time,” Mac said breathlessly to Jack as they hit the top of the stairs, tugging on the edges of his leather jacket.

“He moves around a bit,” Jack said. “That way some of the older guys who can’t travel really easily can still make it in.”

“If they can get past those stairs,” Mac groused, but followed Jack down the dimly lit hallway and into a cavernous, empty room where a slim black man was setting up a circle of metal chairs.

“Freddie, my man,” Jack called, stepping away from Mac and crossing the room.

Freddie Tillerman straightened after setting down the chair in his hand and looked up to grace Jack with a wide, genuinely happy grin. “Jack Dalton,” he said, grabbing Jack’s reaching hand and pulling the surprisingly smaller man in for a tight hug before releasing him. “It’s good to see you!”

“You, too, man. You’re looking good!”

Freddie drew his head back, scoffing at Jack. “Like that was ever in question.”

Still grinning, Jack turned and gestured to Mac, who had lingered in the doorway. “Meet my friend, Angus MacGyver,” he said.

Mac made his way stiffly across the room, his lingering soreness evident to anyone who watched him move. He held his hand out to Freddie, who shook it without the exuberant hug he’d offered Jack, for which Mac was eternally grateful.

“We met a little over a month ago,” Mac reminded him. “I mean, kind of,” he shrugged. “I didn’t really say anything.”

Freddie nodded. “I remember. EOD specialist, right?”

Mac’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah, I used to be. Good memory.”

“You fella’s here for group?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, Freds, about that,” he cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Mac and me…we served in Afghanistan together—I found him after you left, actually—but, uh…the work we do now isn’t exactly…,” Jack frowned, looking for the words. “It can leave the same marks, but no one can know where they came from. You get me?”

“I get you,” Freddie nodded. “EOD Specialist, Delta Force Overwatch,” he nodded at them.

“Thanks, man.”

Freddie eyed Mac. “You look like you’ve been wrung out a few times, kid,” he said. “How about we grab a coffee before the rest get here?”

Mac nodded, glancing back at Jack who waved him forward before grabbing more chairs from the rack and continuing to set up the circle Freddie had started. Mac took the Styrofoam cup of coffee Freddie handed to him.

“How’s things?” Freddie asked.

“Good,” Mac replied. Then he hesitated. “Well, I mean…they’re better than they were a couple weeks ago.”

“What were they like then?” Freddie asked.

Mac pressed a hand against his side, looking down into his coffee. “Jack and I were buried in an avalanche and I was bleeding out from a crossbow wound.”

Freddie nodded. “Yep, this is definitely better than that.”

Mac gave him an appreciative half-grin.

“That what you’re here to talk about?” Freddie asked.

“Tell you the truth,” Mac sighed. “I don’t know why I’m here. Except that…I know I’m not…not _good_ and…,” he shrugged, “and I trust Jack and…well, he trusts you.”

“Okay if I touch you?” Freddie asked. Mac nodded, appreciating the fact that Freddie had been trained to handle soldiers dealing with PTSD and trauma. The taller man rested a hand on Mac’s shoulder. “How about you don’t worry about why you’re here just yet. Sometimes being here is enough. The reason will come when it’s supposed to. Yeah?”

Mac nodded as three men and a woman stepped into the room. “Yeah, okay.” He tossed his cup into the plastic trash can and made his way to Jack, sitting down next to his friend.

Jack pressed his elbow against Mac’s arm, offering reassurance. Mac smiled tightly, sitting back against the metal chair, eyes on the people in the room, trying to relax, his hands rubbing nervously along his jeans.

“Hey,” Jack said quietly, eyes on Mac.

Mac looked over and frowned in confusion when Jack held out a closed hand to him. At first, he thought he wanted a fist bump and he tilted his head.

“Gimme your hand, man.”

Mac opened his hand and almost laughed out loud when Jack dropped four large paperclips onto his palm.

“Knock yourself out, kid,” Jack grinned, settling back to listen to Freddie.

Mac let his fingers work the metal, his mind able to calm itself by working on multiple things at once. Freddie talked, Mac listened. Others in the group talked, Mac listened. Jack talked, Mac listened. When the hour was over, Mac hadn’t said a word about what chased his dreams at night, but he felt his burden had decreased somewhat. Jack shook Freddie’s hand and Mac nodded at the other man, saying he would see him again.

“You good?” Jack asked as they stepped out of the large room and headed slowly down the stairs.

“I’m getting there,” he said, following Jack to his car and climbing into the passenger seat.

As Jack fired up the engine, Mac set the paperclips on the dashboard: a snowflake and a wolf.

Jack grinned as he pulled out of the parking lot.

 

 

**End**. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
>  **a/n:** Freddie Tillerman is based loosely on the character Curtis Hoyle from Netflix’s _The Punisher_ in that they are both former soldiers who run a Veteran support group. I loved that character and felt like paying homage.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I hope you were entertained, as I may come back to this sandbox. 
> 
> Not sure where I’m going next—I have some _Daredevil_ ideas, and have been asked to consider a _Supernatural_ one-shot. I’m going to wait to see what the muse opens up for me.


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